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IRISH  MELODIES. 


PH  Qt^PELPHnAo 
POJ  ©ILDSIKIEID)  MY  EJHLEyTILEtia  &©? 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


BY 

THOMAS  MOORE.' 

II 


ELEGANTLY  ILLUSTRATED. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  & CO. 

18  55. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  UBRART 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


V), 


\ 


* 4 4 


n \> 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Go  where  Glory  waits  Thee, 

17 

Remember  the  Glories  of  Brien  the  Brave, 

19 

Oh  ! Breathe  not  his  Name.  .... 

20 

Erin ! the  Tear  and  the  Smile  in  thine  Eyes, 

21 

When  He,  who  Adores  Thee, 

22 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  Halls, 

23 

Fly  Not  Yet,  ...... 

24 

Oh  ! Think  not  my  Spirits  are  always  as  Light,  . 

25 

Though  the  last  Glimpse  of  Erin  with  Sorrow  I see, 

2Q, 

Rich  and  Rare  were  the  Gems  she  Wore, 

27 

As  a Beam  o’er  the  Face  of  the  Waters  may  Glow,  . 

28 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters,  .... 

29 

St.  Senanus  and  the  Lady,  .... 

. 

30 

How  Dear  to  Me  the  Hour, 

31 

Take  Back  the  Virgin  Page,  .... 

. 

32 

The  Legacy,  ...... 

34 

How  Oft  has  the  Benshee  Cried, 

35 

We  may  Roam  through  the  World, 

37 

Eveleen’s  Bower,  ..... 

39 

Let  Erin  Remember  the  Days  of  Old, 

40 

Desmond’s  Song,  ..... 

42 

X 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


The  Song  of  Fionnuala,  .... 

44 

Come,  Send  round  the  Wine,  .... 

45 

Sublime  was  the  Warning,  .... 

46 

Believe  Me  if  all  those  Endearing  young  Charms, 

48 

Erin,  oh  Erin,  ..... 

49 

Drink  to  Her,  . ..... 

50 

Oh  ! Blame  not  the  Bard,  .... 

52 

While  Gazing  on  the  Moon’s  Light, 

54 

111  Omens,  ...... 

56 

Before  the  Battle, ...... 

58 

After  the  Battle,  ..... 

60 

’Tis  Sweet  to  Think,  ..... 

61 

The  Irish  Peasant  to  his  Mistress, 

63 

On  Music,  ...... 

64 

It  is  not  the  Tear  at  this  moment  Shed, 

65 

The  Origin  of  the  Harp,  ..... 

66 

Love’s  Young  Dream,  . . . . . 

67 

The  Prince's  Day,  ..... 

69 

Weep  on,  Weep  on,'  ..... 

*71 

Lesbia  hath  a Beaming  Eye,  .... 

72 

I saw  thy  Form  in  Youthful  Prime,  . 

74 

By  that  Lake  whose  Gloomy  Shore, 

76 

She  is  far  from  the  Land,  .... 

78 

Nay,  Tell  me  not,  ..... 

79 

Avenging  and  Bright,  .... 

81 

What  the  Bee  is  to  the  Floweret, 

83 

Love  and  the  Novice,  .... 

84 

This  Life  is  all  Chequered  with  Pleasures  and  Woes,  . 

85 

Oh ! the  Shamrock,  ..... 

87 

At  the  mid  hour  of  Night,  .... 

89 

One  Bumper  at  Parting,  .... 

90 

’Tis  the  last  Rose  of  Summer,  .... 

92 

CONTENTS. 

The  Young  May  Moon,  ..... 

XI 

PAGE 

93 

The  Minstrel  Boy,  ..... 

94 

The  Song  of  O'Ruark,  ..... 

95 

Oh!  had  we  some  bright  little  Isle  of  our  Own,  . 

97 

Farewell! — But  whenever  you  Welcome  the  Hour, 

98 

Oh ! Doubt  me  Not,  ..... 

. 100 

You  Remember  Ellen,  ..... 

101 

I’d  mourn  the  Hopes,  ..... 

. 103 

Come  o’er  the  Sea,  ...... 

105 

Has  Sorrow  thy  Young  Days  Shaded,  . 

. 107 

No,  not  more  Welcome,  ..... 

109 

When  first  I Met  Thee,  ..... 

. 110 

While  History's  Muse,  ..... 

112 

The  Time  I’ve  Lost  in  Wooing,  .... 

114 

Oh ! where’s  the  Slave,  ..... 

116 

Come,  Rest  in  this  Bosom,  .... 

117 

!Tis  gone,  and  for  ever,  ..... 

118 

I saw  from  the  Beach,  ..... 

. 120 

Fill  the  Bumper  Fair,  ..... 

121 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country,  .... 

123 

My  Gentle  Harp,  ...... 

125 

As  Slow  our  Ship,  ..... 

127 

In  the  Morning  of  Life,  ..... 

129 

When  Cold  in  the  Earth,  .... 

130 

Remember  Thee,  ...... 

131 

Wreath  the  Bowl,  ..... 

132 

Whene'er  I see  those  Smiling  Eyes, 

134 

If  thou'lt  be  Mine,  ...... 

135 

To  Ladies’  Eyes,  ...... 

136 

Forget  not  the  Field,  ..... 

138 

They  may  rail  at  this  Life,  ..... 

139 

Oh!  for  the  Swords  of  former  Time, 

141 

PAGE 

Ne’er  ask  the  Hour,  .......  142 

Sail  on,  Sail  on,  . ......  143 

The  Parallel,  .......  144 

Drink  of  this  Cup,  .......  146 

The  Fortune-Teller,  . ......  148 

Oh,  ye  Dead,  . . ......  150 

O'Donohue’s  Mistress,  . . . . . . 151 

Echo,  .........  153 

Oh,  Banquet  Not,  . . . . . . . 154 

Thee,  Thee,  only  Thee,  . . . . . . .155 

Shall  the  Harp  then  be  Silent,  . . . . . 157 

Oh,  the  Sight  Entrancing,  . . . . . . 159 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  . ......  161 

’Twas  one  of  those  Dreams,  ......  163 

Fairest!  put  on  awhile,  ......  165 

Quick,  we  have  but  a second,  ......  167 

And  doth  not  a Meeting  like  this,  . . . . 168 

The  Mountain  Sprite,  . . . . . . .170 

As  Vanquished  Erin,  ......  172 

They  know  not  my  Heart,  ......  174 

I wish  I was  by  that  dim  Lake,  . . . . . 175 

She  Sung  of  Love,  .......  177 

Sing — Sing — Music  was  given,  . . . . . 179 

Though  Humble  the  Banquet,  . . . . . .180 

Sing,  sweet  Harp,  . . . . . . . 181 

Song  of  the  Battle  Eve,  . . . . . . .183 

The  Wandering  Bard,  . . . . . . 185 

Alone  in  Crowds  to  Wander  on,  .....  187 

I've  a Secret  to  tell  thee,  . . . . . . 1S9 

Song  of  Innisfail,  ........  190 

The  Night  Dance,  . . . . . . . 192 

There  are  Sounds  of  Mirth,  . ......  193 


CONTENTS.  Xlll 

PAGE 

Oh  ! Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore,  .....  195 

Lay  his  Sword  by  bis  Side.  . . . . . .197 

Oh  ! could  We  do  with  this  World  of  Ours,  . . . 199 

The  Wine-Cup  is  Circling,  ......  200 

The  Dream  of  those  Days,  ......  202 

From  this  Hour  the  Pledge  is  Given,  . ....  203 

Silence  is  in  our  Festal  Halls,  .....  205 

Appendix,  ........  207 

Index  of  First  Lines.  ......  233 


2 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT  OF  MOORE, 

VIGNETTE, 

GO  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE, 

THE  VALE  OF  AVOCA, 

THE  DESMOND’S  LOVE, 

NORA  CREINA, 

“ NAY,  IF  FLOWERS  WILL  LOSE  THEIR 
ELLEN,  .... 
“WHEN  FIRST  I MET  THEE,’- 
THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE,  . 

THE  MOUNTAIN  SPRITE, 

“ SHE  SUNG  OF  LOVE,"  . 


. Frontispiece. 

Title  Page. 

17 

29 

42 

72 

LOOKS,  ’ 

83 

. 101 

110 

129 

170 

177 

IRISH  MELODIES. 


GO  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 

But  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh  ! still  remember  me. 

When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh  ! then  remember  me. 

Other  arms  may  press  thee, 

Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 

All  the  joys  that  bless  thee 
Sweeter  far  may  be ; 

But  when  friends  are  nearest, 

And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh  ! then  remember  me  ! 

When,  at  eve,  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

Oh  ! then  remember  me. 

Think,  when  home  returning, 

Bright  we’ve  seen  it  burning, 

Oh  ! thus  remember  me. 

3 


18 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Oft  as  summer  closes, 

"When  thine  eye  reposes, 

On  its  ling’ring  roses, 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them, 
Oh  ! then  remember  me. 

When,  around  thee  dying, 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

Oh  ! then  remember  me. 

And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

Oh  ! still  remember  me. 

Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 

To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee  ; 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I used  to  sing  thee, — 
Oh  ! then  remember  me. 


BRIEN  THE  BRAVE. 


19 


REMEMBER  THE  GLORIES  OF  BRIEN 
THE  BRAVE.* 

WAR  SONG. 

Remember  the  glories  of  Brien  the  brave, 

Though  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o’er ; 

Though  lost  to  Mononia,f  and  cold  in  the  grave, 
He  returns  to  KinkoraJ  no  more. 

That  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  hath  poured 
Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set ; 

But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword, 

To  light  us  to  victory  yet. 

Mononia  ! when  Nature  embellished  the  tint 
Of  thy  fields,  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 

Did  she  ever  intend  that  a tyrant  should  print 
The  footstep  of  slavery  there  ? 

No  ! Freedom,  whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign, 
Go,  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 

That  ’tis  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  shrine, 
Than  to  sleep  but  a moment  in  chains. 


* Brien  Borombe,  the  great  Monarch  of  Ireland,  who  was  killed  at  the  battle 
of  Clontarf,  in  the  beginning  of  the  11th  century,  after  having  defeated  the 
Danes  in  twenty-five  engagements, 
t Munster. 


J The  palace  of  Brien. 


20 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Forget  not  our  'wounded  companions,  who  stood* 

In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side ; 

While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  their  blood, 
They  stirred  not,  but  conquered  and  died. 

That  sun  which  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his  light 
Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory’s  plain ; — 

Oh ! let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to-night, 

To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain. 


OH ! BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME. 

Oh  ! breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid ; 

Sad,  silent,  and  dark,  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 

As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o’er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 


* This  alludes  to  an  interesting  circumstance  related  of  the  Dalgais,  the 
favorite  troops  of  Brien,  when  they  were  interrupted  in  their  return  from 
the  battle  of  Clontarf.  by  Fitzpatrick,  Prince  of  Ossory.  The  wounded  men 
entreated  that  they  might  be  allowed  to  fight  with  the  rest. — “ Let  stakes  (they 
said)  be  stuck  in  the  ground , and  suffer  each  of  us,  tied  to  and  supported  by  one  of 
these  stakes , to  be  placed  in  his  rank  by  the  side  of  a sound  man."  “ Between  seven 
and  eight  hundred  wounded  men  (adds  OHalloran),  pale,  emaciated,  and  sup- 
ported in  this  manner,  appeared  mixed  with  the  foremost  of  the  troops ; — never 
was  such  another  sight  exhibited. :! — History  of  Ireland , book  xii.  chap.  i. 


ERIN  ! 


21 


ERIN ! THE  TEAR  AND  THE  SMILE  IN 
THINE  EYES. 

Erin  ! the  tear  and  the  smile  in  thine  eyes 
Blend  like  the  rainbow  that  hangs  in  thy  skies  ! 
Shining  through  sorrow’s  stream, 

Saddening  through  pleasure’s  beam, 

Thy  suns  with  doubtful  gleam 
Weep  while  they  rise. 

Erin ! thy  silent  tear  never  shall  cease, 

Erin  ! thy  languid  smile  ne’er  shall  increase, 
Till,  like  the  rainbow’s  light, 

Thy  various  tints  unite, 

And  form  in  Heaven’s  sight 
One  arch  of  peace  ! 


2 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


WHEN  HE,  WHO  ADORES  THEE. 

When  he,  who  adores  thee,  has  left  but  the  name 
Of  his  faults  and  his  sorrows  behind, 

Oh  ! say  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 
Of  a life  that  for  thee  was  resigned  ? 

Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree ; 

For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I have  been  hut  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love  ; 
Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine  ; 

In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above, 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine. 

Oh ! blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 
The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ; 

But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 
Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 


oh!  think  not  my  spirits. 


25 


OH ! THINK  NOT  MY  SPIRITS  ARE  ALWAYS 
AS  LIGHT. 

Oh  ! think  not  my  spirits  are  always  as  light, 

And  as  free  from  a pang,  as  they  seem  to  you  now ; 

Nor  expect  that  the  heart-beaming  smile  of  to-night 
Will  return  with  to-morrow  to  brighten  my  brow. 

No  : — life  is  a waste  of  wearisome  hours, 

Which  seldom  the  rose  of  enjoyment  adorns  ; 

And  the  heart  that  is  soonest  awake  to  the  flowers 
Is  always  the  first  to  be  touched  by  the  thorns. 

But  send  round  the  bowl,  and  be  happy  awhile : — 

May  we  never  meet  worse,  in  our  pilgrimage  here, 

Than  the  tear  that  enjoyment  may  gild  with  a smile, 

And  the  smile  that  compassion  can  turn  to  a tear ! 

The  thread  of  our  life  would  be  dark,  Heaven  knows  ! 

If  it  were  not  with  friendship  and  love  intertwined ; 

And  I care  not  how  soon  I may  sink  to  repose, 

When  these  blessings  shall  cease  to  be  dear  to  my  mind. 

But  they  who  have  loved  the  fondest,  the  purest, 

Too  often  have  wept  o’er  the  dream  they  believed ; 

And  the  heart  that  has  slumbered  in  friendship  securest 
Is  happy,  indeed,  if  ’twas  never  deceived. 

But  send  round  the  bowl : while  a relic  of  truth 

Is  in  man  or  in  woman,  this  prayer  shall  be  mine, — 

That  the  sunshine  of  love  may  illumine  our  youth, 

And  the  moonlight  of  friendship  console  our  decline. 

4 


26 


IKISH  MELODIES. 


THOUGH  THE  LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  ERIN  WITH 
SORROW  I SEE. 

Though  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I see, 
Yet  wherever  thou  art  shall  seem  Erin  to  me ; 

In  exile  thy  bosom  shall  still  be  my  home, 

And  thine  eyes  make  my  climate  wherever  we  roam. 

To  the  gloom  of  some  desert  or  cold  rocky  shore, 
Where  the  eye  of  the  stranger  can  hunt  us  no  more, 

I will  fly  with  my  Coulin,  and  think  the  rough  wind 
Less  rude  than  the  foes  we  leave  frowning  behind. 

And  I’ll  gaze  on  thy  gold  hair  as  graceful  it  wreathes, 
And  hang  o’er  thy  soft  harp,  as  wildly  it  breathes 
Nor  dread  that  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  will  tear 
One  chord  from  that  harp,  or  one  lock  from  that  hair.* 


* “ In  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  an  Act  was  made 
respecting  the  habits,  and  dress  in  general,  of  the  Irish,  whereby  all  persons 
were  restrained  from  being  shorn  or  shaven  above  the  ears,  or  from  wearing 
Glibbes,  or  Coulins  (long  locks),  on  their  heads,  or  hair  on  their  upper  lip, 
called  Crommeal.  On  this  occasion  a song  was  written  by  one  of  our  bards,  in 
which  an  Irish  virgin  is  made  to  give  the  preference  to  her  dear  Coulin  (or  the 
youth  with  the  flowing  locks)  to  all  strangers  (by  which  the  English  were 
meant),  or  those  who  wore  their  habits.  Of  this  song  the  air  alone  has  reached 
us,  and  is  universally  admired.” — Walker's  Historical  Memoirs  of  Irish  Bards , 
p.  134.  Mr.  Walker  informs  us,  also,  that  about  the  same  period  there  were 
some  harsh  measures  taken  against  the  Irish  Minstrels. 


CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 


RICH  AND  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS  SHE  WORE.  27 


RICH  AND  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS  SHE  WORE.* 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 

And  a bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore ; 

But  oh ! her  beauty  was  far  beyond 
Her  sparkling  gems,  or  snow-white  wand. 

“ Lady  ! dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray 
So  lone  and  lovely  through  this  bleak  way  ? 

Are  Erin’s  sons  so  good  or  so  cold, 

As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  ?” 

“ Sir  Knight ! I feel  not  the  least  alarm, 

No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm  : — 

For,  though  they  love  woman  and  golden  store, 

Sir  Knight ! they  love  honor  and  virtue  more.” 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  green  isle ; 

And  blest  for  ever  is  she  who  relied 
Upon  Erin’s  honor  and  Erin’s  pride. 


* This  ballad  is  founded  upon  the  following  anecdote : — “ The  people  were 
inspired  with  such  a spirit  of  honor,  virtue,  and  religion,  by  the  great  example 
of  Brien,  and  by  his  excellent  administration,  that,  as  a proof  of  it,  we  are  in- 
formed that  a young  lady  of  great  beauty,  adorned  with  jewels  and  a costly 
dress,  undertook  a journey  alone,  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other, 
with  a wand  only  in  her  hand,  at  the  top  of  which  was  a ring  of  exceeding 
great  value ; and  such  an  impression  had  the  laws  and  government  of  this 
monarch  made  on  the  minds  of  all  the  people,  that  no  attempt  was  made 
upon  her  honor,  nor  was  she  robbed  of  her  clothes  or  jewels.” — Warner's 
History  of  Ireland,  vol.  i.  book  x. 


28 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


AS  A BEAM  O’ER  THE  FACE  OF  THE  WATERS 
MAY  GLOW. 

As  a beam  o’er  the  face  of  the  waters  may  glow, 

While  the  tide  runs  in  darkness  and  coldness  below, 

So  the  cheek  may  be  tinged  with  a warm  Sunny  smile, 
Though  the  cold  heart  to  ruin  runs  darkly  the  while. 

One  fatal  remembrance,  one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o’er  our  joys  and  our  woes, 

To  which  life  nothing  darker  or  brighter  can  bring, 

For  which  joy  has  no  balm  and  affliction  no  sting — 

Oh  ! this  thought  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment  will  stay, 
Like  a dead  leafless  branch  in  the  summer’s  bright  ray ; 
The  beams  of  the  warm  sun  play  round  it  in  vain, 

It  may  smile  in  his  light,  but  it  blooms  not  again. 


0 


MRCLjSI 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 


29 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS.* 

There  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet  ;f 
Oh ! the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 

Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o’er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 

’Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 

Oh  ! no — it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

’Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 

When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca ! how  calm  could  I rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I love  best, 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 


* “ The  Meeting  of  the  Waters'’  forms  a part  of  that  beautiful  scenery  which 
lies  between  Rathdrum  and  Arklow,  in  the  county  of  Wicklow;  and  these 
lines  were  suggested  by  a visit  to  this  romantic  spot,  in  the  summer  of  the 
year  1807. 

f The  rivers  Avon  and  Avoca. 


30 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


ST.  SENANUS  AND  THE  LADY. 

ST.  SEN  ANUS.* 

“ Oh  ! haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle, 
Unholy  hark,  ere  morning  smile  ; 

For  on  thy  deck,  though  dark  it  be, 

A female  form  I see ; 

And  I have  sworn  this  sainted  sod 
Shall  ne’er  by  woman’s  feet  be  trod.” 

THE  LADY. 

“ Oh!  Father,  send  not  hence  my  bark, 
Through  wintry  winds  and  billows  dark  : 
I come  with  humble  heart  to  share 
Thy  morn  and  evening  prayer ; 


* In  a metrical  life  of  St.  Senanus,  which  is  taken  from  an  old  Kilkenny  MS., 
and  may  be  found  among  the  Acta  Sanctorum  Hibernia , we  are  told  of  his  flight 
to  the  island  of  Scattery,  and  his  resolution  not  to  admit  any  woman  of  the  party  ; 
he  refused  to  receive  even  a sister  saint  St.  Cannera,  whom  an  angel  had  taken 
to  the  island  for  the  express  purpose  of  introducing  her  to  him.  The  following 
was  the  ungracious  answer  of  Senanus,  according  to  his  poetical  biographer  : — 

Cui  Prcesul : Quid  focminis 
Commune  est  cum  monachis  ? 

Nec  te  nec  ullam  aliam 
Admittemus  in  insulam. 

See  the  Acta  Sand.  Hib.  p.  610. 

According  to  Dr.  Ledwich,  St.  Senanus  was  no  less  a personage  than  the 
river  Shannon ; but  O'Connor  and  other  antiquarians  deny  the  metamorphose 
indignantly. 


HOW  DEAR  TO  ME  THE  HOUR. 


31 


Nor  mine  the  feet,  oh  ! holy  Saint, 

The  brightness  of  thy  sod  to  taint.” 

The  Lady’s  prayer  Senanus  spurned ; 
The  winds  blew  fresh,  the  bark  returned  ; 
But  legends  hint,  that  had  the  maid 
Till  morning’s  light  delayed, 

And  givOn  the  saint  one  rosy  smile, 

She  ne’er  had  left  his  lonely  isle. 


HOW  DEAR  TO  ME  THE  HOUR, 

How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  daylight  dies, 

And  sunbeams  melt  along  the  silent  sea, 

For  then  sweet  dreams  of  other  days  arise, 

And  memory  breathes  her  vesper  sigh  to  thee. 

And,  as  I watch  the  line  of  light,  that  plays 

Along  the  smooth  wave  toward  the  burning  west, 

I long  to  tread  that  golden  path  of  rays, 

And  think  ’twould  lead  to  some  bright  isle  of  rest. 


32 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


TAKE  BACK  THE  VIRGIN  PAGE. 


WRITTEN  ON  RETURNING  A BLANK  BOOK. 

Take  back  the  virgin  page, 
White  and  unwritten  still ; 
Some  hand,  more  calm  and  sage, 
The  leaf  must  fill. 

Thoughts  come  as  pure  as  light, 
Pure  as  even  you  require  : 

But  oh ! each  word  I write 
Love  turns  to  fire. 

Yet  let  me  keep  the  hook  : 

Oft  shall  my  heart  renew, 
When  on  its  leaves  I look, 

Dear  thoughts  of  you. 

Like  you,  ’tis  fair  and  bright ; 

Like  you,  too  bright  and  fair 
To  let  wild  passion  write 
One  wrong  wish  there. 


Haply,  when  from  those  eyes 
Far,  far  away  I roam, 
Should  calmer  thoughts  arise 
Towards  you  and  home ; 


TAKE  BACK  THE  VIRGIN  PAGE. 


33 


Fancy  may  trace  some  line 
Worthy  those  eyes  to  meet, 
Thoughts  that  not  burn,  hut  shine, 
Pure,  calm,  and  sweet. 

And  as,  o’er  ocean  far, 

Seamen  their  records  keep, 

Led  by  some  hidden  star 
Through  the  cold  deep ; 

So  may  the  words  I write 

Tell  through  wdiat  storms  I stray — 
You  still  the  unseen  light 
Guiding  my  way. 


34 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  LEGACY. 

When  in  death  I shall  calm  recline, 

0 bear  my  heart  to  my  mistress  dear  ; 

Tell*  her  it  lived  upon  smiles  and  wine 

Of  the  brightest  hue,  while  it  lingered  here. 

Bid  her  not  shed  one  tear  of  sorrow, 

To  sully  a heart  so  brilliant  and  light ; 

But  balmy  drops  of  the  red  grape  borrow, 

To  bathe  the  relic  from  morn  till  night. 

When  the  light  of  my  song  is  o’er, 

Then  take  my  harp  to  your  ancient  hall ; 

Hang  it  up  at  that  friendly  door, 

Where  weary  travellers  love  to  call.* 

Then  if  some  hard,  who  roams  forsaken, 
Revive  its  soft  note  in  passing  along, 

Oh  ! let  one  thought  of  its  master  waken 
Your  warmest  smile  for  the  child  of  song. 


Keep  this  cup,  which  is  now  o’erflowing, 

To  grace  your  revel  when  I’m  at  rest ; 
Never,  oh  ! never  its  halm  bestowing 
On  lips  that  beauty  hath  seldom  blest. 
But  when  some  warm  devoted  lover 
To  her  he  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim, 
Then,  then  my  spirit  around  shall  hover, 
And  hallow  each  drop  that  foams  for  him. 


* “ In  every  house  was  one  or  two  harps,  free  to  all  travellers,  who  were  the 
more  caressed,  the  more  they  excelled  in  music.” — O Halloran. 


HOW  OFT  HAS  THE  BENSHEE  CRIED. 


85 


HOW  OFT  HAS  THE  BENSHEE  CRIED. 

How  oft  has  the  Benshee  cried ! 

How  oft  has  death  untied 
Bright  links  that  Glory  wove, 

Sweet  bonds  entwined  by  Love  ! 

Peace  to  each  manly  soul  that  sleepeth  : 

Rest  to  each  faithful  eye  that  weepeth : 

Long  may  the  fair  and  brave 
Sigh  o’er  the  hero’s  grave  ! 

WTe’re  fallen  upon  gloomy  days  !* 

Star  after  star  decays, 

Every  bright  name  that  shed 
Light  o’er  the  land  is  fled. 

Dark  falls  the  tear  of  him  who  mourn eth 
Lost  joy,  or  hope  that  ne’er  returneth  : 

But  brightly  flows  the  tear 
Wept  o’er  a hero’s  bier. 

Quenched  are  our  beacon  lights — 

Thou,  of  the  Hundred  Fights  If 


* I have  endeavored  here,  without  losing  that  Irish  character  which  it  is 
my  object  to  preserve  throughout  this  work,  to  allude  to  the  sad  and  ominous 
fatality  by  which  England  has  been  deprived  of  so  many  great  and  good  men, 
at  a moment  when  she  most  requires  all  the  aids  of  talent  and  integrity. 

t This  designation,  which  has  been  applied  to  Lord  Nelson  before,  is  the 


36 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Thou,  on  whose  burning  tongue 
Truth,  peace,  and  freedom  hung!* 
Both  mute, — but  long  as  valor  shineth, 
Or  mercy’s  soul  at  war  repineth, 

So  long  shall  Erin’s  pride 
Tell  how  they  lived  and  died. 


title  given  to  a celebrated  Irish  Hero,  in  a poem  by  0 Guive,  the  bard  of 
O'Niel,  which  is  quoted  in  the  “ Philosophical  Survey  of  the  South  of  Ireland,” 
page  433.  “ Con,  of  the  Hundred  Fights,  sleep  in  thy  grass-grown  tomb,  and 

upbraid  not  our  defeats  with  thy  victories !” 

* Fox,  “ Romanorum  ultimus.” 


WE  MAY  ROAM  THROUGH  THIS  WORLD.  37 


WE  MAY  ROAM  THROUGH  THIS  WORLD. 

We  may  roam  through  this  world,  like  a child  at  a feast, 

Who  but  sips  of  a sweet,  and  then  flies  to  the  rest ; 

And,  when  pleasure  begins  to  grow  dull  in  the  east, 

We  may  order  our  wings,  and  be  off  to  the  west ; 

But  if  hearts  that  feel,  and  eyes  that  smile, 

Are  the  dearest  gifts  that  Heaven  supplies, 

We  never  need  leave  our  own  green  isle, 

For  sensitive  hearts,  and  for  sun-bright  eyes. 

Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crowned, 

Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you  roam, 

When  a cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh ! remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  home. 

In  England,  the  garden  of  Beauty  is  kept 
By  a dragon  of  prudery  placed  within  call ; 

But  so  oft  this  unamiable  dragon  has  slept, 

That  the  garden’s  but  carelessly  watched  after  all. 

Oh ! they  want  the  wild  sweet-briery  fence 
Which  round  the  flowers  of  Erin  dwells  ; 

Which  warns  the  touch,  while  winning  the  sense, 

Nor  charms  us  least  when  it  most  repels. 

Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crowned, 

Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you  roam, 

When  a cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh ! remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  home. 


38 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


In  France,  when  the  heart  of  a woman  sets  sail 
On  the  ocean  of  wedlock  its  fortune  to  try, 

Love  seldom  goes  far  in  a vessel  so  frail, 

But  just  pilots  her  off,  and  then  bids  her  good-bye. 

While  the  daughters  of  Erin  keep  the  boy, 

Ever  smiling  beside  his  faithful  oar, 

Through  billows  of  woe  and  beams  of  joy, 

The  same  as  he  looked  when  he  left  the  shore. 

Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crowned, 

Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you  roam, 
When  a cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh  ! remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  home. 


eveleen’s  bower. 


89 


EVELEEN’S  BOWER. 

Oh  ! weep  for  the  hour 
When  to  Eveleen’s  bower 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  with  false  vows  came; 

The  moon  hid  her  light 
From  the  heavens  that  night, 

And  wept  behind  the  clouds  o’er  the  maiden’s  shame. 

The  clouds  passed  soon 
From  the  chaste  cold  moon, 

And  heaven  smiled  again  with  her  vestal  flame  ; 

But  none  will  see  the  day 
When  the  clouds  shall  pass  away, 

Which  that  dark  hour  left  upon  Eveleen’s  fame. 

The  white  snow  lay 
On  the  narrow  pathway, 

When  the  Lord  of  the  Valley  crossed  over  the  moor  ; 
And  many  a deep  print 
On  the  white  snow’s  tint 

Showed  the  track  of  his  footstep  to  Eveleen’s  door. 

The  next  sun’s  ray 
Soon  melted  away 

Every  trace  on  the  path  where  the  false  Lord  came ; 
But  there’s  a light  above, 

Which  alone  can  remove 

That  stain  upon  the  snow  of  fair  Eveleen’s  fame. 


40 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OF  OLD. 

Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betrayed  her ; 

When  Malachi  wore  the  collar  of  gold,* 

Which  he  won  from  her  proud  invader ; 

When  her  kings,  with  standard  of  green  unfurled, 
Led  the  Red-Branch  Knights  to  danger ; — f 

Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 
Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a stranger. 

On  Lough  Neagh’s  bank  as  the  fisherman  strays, 
When  the  clear  cold  eve’s  declining, 

He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 
In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining ; 


* “ This  brought  on  an  encounter  between  Malachi  (the  Monarch  of  Ireland 
in  the  tenth  century)  and  the  Danes,  in  which  Malachi  defeated  two  of  their 
champions,  whom  he  encountered  successively,  hand  to  hand,  taking  a collar 
of  gold  from  the  neck  of  one,  and  carrying  off  the  sword  of  the  other,  as  tro- 
phies of  his  victory.'' — Warner's  History  of  Ireland,  vol.  i.  book  ix. 

t “ Military  orders  of  knights  were  very  early  established  in  Ireland ; long 
before  the  birth  of  Christ  we  find  an  hereditary  order  of  Chivalry  in  Ulster, 
called  Curaidhe  na  Craiobhe  ruadh , or  the  Knights  of  the  Red  Branch,  from 
their  chief  seat  in  Emania,  adjoining  to  the  palace  of  the  Ulster  Kings,  called 
Teagh  na  Craiobhe  ruadh , or  the  Academy  of  the  Red  Branch ; and  contiguous 
to  which  was  a large  hospital,  founded  for  the  sick  knights  and  soldiers,  called 
Bronbhearg.  or  the  House  of  the  Sorrowful  .Soldier.” — 0 Halloran's  Introduc- 
tion, &c.,  part  i.  chap.  v. 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OF  OLD.  41 


Thus  shall  memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime, 
Catch  a glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over ; 
Thus,  sighing,  look  through  the  waves  of  time 
For  the  long-faded  glories  they  cover.* 


* It  was  an  old  tradition,  in  the  time  of  Giraldus,  that  Lough  Neagh  had 
been  originally  a fountain,  by  whose  sudden  overflowing  the  country  was 
inundated,  and  a whole  region,  like  the  Atlantis  of  Plato,  overwhelmed. 
He  says  that  the  fishermen,  in  clear  weather,  used  to  point  out  to  strangers  the 
tall  ecclesiastical  towers  under  the  water.  Piscatores  aqua  illius  turres  ecclesias- 
ticas  qua  more  patria  arcta  sunt  et  alta,  necnon  et  rotunda , sub  undis  manifests 
sereno  tempore  conspiciunt , et  extraneis  transeuntibus , reique  causas  admirantibus , 
frequenter  ostendunt. — Topogr.  Hib.,  dist.  ii.  c.  9. 


6 


42 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


DESMOND’S  SONG.* 

By  the  Feal’s  wave  benighted, 

No  star  in  the  skies, 

To  thy  door  by  Love  lighted, 

I first  saw  those  eyes. 

Some  voice  whispered  o’er  me, 

As  the  threshold  I crossed, 

There  was  ruin  before  me, 

If  I loved  I was  lost. 

Love  came,  and  brought  sorrow 
Too  soon  in  his  train ; 

Yet  so  sweet,  that  to-morrow 
’Twere  welcome  again. 

Though  misery’s  full  measure 
My  portion  should  be, 

I would  drain  it  with  pleasure, 

If  poured  out  by  thee. 

* “ Thomas,  the  heir  of  the  Desmond  family,  had  accidentally  been  so  en- 
gaged in  the  chase,  that  he  was  benighted  near  Tralee,  and  was  obliged  to 
take  shelter  at  the  Abbey  of  Feal,  in  the  house  of  one  of  his  dependants,  called 
Mac  Cormac.  Catharine,  a beautiful  daughter  of  his  host,  instantly  inspired 
the  Earl  with  a violent  passion,  which  he  could  not  subdue.  He  married  her, 
and  by  this  inferior  alliance  alienated  his  followers,  whose  brutal  pride  re- 
garded this  indulgence  of  his  love  as  an  unpardonable  degradation  of  his 
family/’ — Leland,  vol.  ii. 


Desmond’s  song. 


43 


You,  who  call  it  dishonor 
To  bow  to  this  flame, 

If  you’ve  eyes,  look  but  on  her, 
And  blush  while  you  blame. 

Hath  the  pearl  less  whiteness 
Because  of  its  birth  ? 

Hath  the  violet  less  brightness 
F or  growing  near  earth  ? 

No — Man  for  his  glory 
To  ancestry  flies  ; 

But  woman’s  bright  story 
Is  told  in  her  eyes. 

While  the  Monarch  but  traces 
Through  mortals  his  line, 

Beauty,  born  of  the  Graces, 
Banks  next  to  Divine  ! 


44 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  SONG  OF  FIONNUALA.* 

Silent,  oli  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy  water, 

Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 

While,  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir’s  lonely  daughter 
Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of  woes. 

When  shall  the  swan,  her  death-note  singing, 

Sleep,  with  wings  in  darkness  furled  ? 

When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 

Call  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world  ! 

Sadly,  oh  Moyle,  to  thy  winter-wave  weeping, 

Fate  bids  me  languish  long  ages  away ; 

Yet  still  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin  lie  sleeping, 

Still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning  delay. 

When  will  that  day-star,  mildly  springing, 

Warm  our  isle  with  peace  and  love  ? 

When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 

Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above. 


* To  make  this  story  intelligible  in  a song  would  require  a much  greater 
number  of  verses  than  any  one  is  authorized  to  inflict  upon  an  audience  at 
once  ; the  reader  must  therefore  be  content  to  learn,  in  a note,  that  Fionnuala, 
the  daughter  of  Lir,  was  by  some  supernatural  power,  transformed  into  a swan 
and  condemned  to  wander  for  many  hundred  years  over  certain  lakes  and 
rivers  in  Ireland,  till  the  coming  of  Christianity,  when  the  first  sound  of  the 
mass-bell  was  to  be  the  signal  of  her  release. — I found  this  fanciful  fiction 
among  some  manuscript  translations  from  the  Irish,  which  were  begun  under 
the  direction  of  that  enlightened  friend  of  Ireland,  the  late  Countess  of  Moira. 


45 


COME,  SEND  ROUND  THE  WINE. 


COME,  SEND  ROUND  THE  WINE. 

Come,  send  round  the  wine,  and  leave  points  of  belief 
To  simpleton  sages,  and  reasoning  fools ; 

This  moment’s  a flower  too  fair  and  brief, 

To  be  withered  and  stained  by  the  dust  of  the  schools. 

Your  glass  may  be  purple,  and  mine  may  be  blue, 

But,  while  they  are  filled  from  the  same  bright  bowl, 

The  fool,  who  would  quarrel  for  difference  of  hue, 
Deserves  not  the  comfort  they  shed  o’er  the  soul. 

Shall  I ask  the  brave  soldier  who  fights  by  my  side 
In  the  cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds  agree  ? 

Shall  I give  up  the  friend  I have  valued  and  tried, 

If  he  kneel  not  before  the  same  altar  with  me  ? 

From  the  heretic  girl  of  my  soul  should  I fly, 

To  seek  somewhere  else  a more  orthodox  kiss  ? 

No,  perish  the  hearts,  and  the  laws  that  try 
Truth,  valor,  or  love,  by  a standard  like  this  ! 


46 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


SUBLIME  WAS  THE  WARNING. 

Sublime  was  the  warning  that  Liberty  spoke, 

And  grand  was  the  moment  when  Spaniards  awoke 
Into  life  and  revenge  from  the  conqueror’s  chain. 

Oh,  Liberty ! let  not  the  spirit  have  rest, 

Till  it  move,  like  a breeze,  o’er  the  waves  of  the  west — 
Give  the  light  of  your  look  to  each  sorrowing  spot, 

Nor,  oh,  he  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  forgot, 

While  you  add  to  your  garland  the  Olive  of  Spain ! 

If  the  fame  of  our  fathers,  bequeathed  with  their  rights, 
Give  to  country  its  charm,  and  to  home  its  delights, 

If  deceit  be  a wound,  and  suspicion  a stain, 

Then,  ye  men  of  Iberia,  our  cause  is  the  same. 

And  oh  ! may  his  tomb  want  a tear  and  a name, 

Who  would  ask  for  a nobler,  a holier  death, 

Than  to  turn  his  last  sigh  into  victory’s  breath, 

For  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain  ! 

Ye  Blakes  and  O’Donnels,  whose  fathers  resigned 
The  green  hills  of  their  youth,  among  strangers  to  find 
That  repose  which,  at  home,  they  had  sighed  for  in  vain, 
Join,  join  in  our  hope  that  the  flame  which  you  light 
May  be  felt  yet  in  Erin,  as  calm,  and  as  bright, 

And  forgive  even  Albion  while  blushing  she  draws, 

Like  a truant,  her  sword,  in  the  long-slighted  cause 
Of  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain  ! 


SUBLIME  WAS  THE  WARNING. 


47 


God  prosper  the  cause  ! — oh,  it  cannot  but  thrive, 
While  the  pulse  of  one  patriot  heart  is  alive, 

Its  devotion  to  feel,  and  its  rights  to  maintain. 
Then,  how  sainted  by  sorrow  its  martyrs  will  die  ! 

The  finger  of  Glory  shall  point  where  they  lie  ; 

While,  far  from  the  footstep  of  coward  or  slave, 

The  young  spirit  of  Freedom  shall  shelter  their  grave 
Beneath  Shamrocks  of  Erin  and  Olives  of  Spain  ! 


48 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEARING  YOUNG 

CHARMS. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 

Which  I gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 

Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms, 
Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 

Thou  wouldst  still  he  adored,  as  this  moment  thou  art, 
Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 

And  round  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 
Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a tear, 

That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a soul  can  he  known, 

To  which  time  will  hut  make  thee  more  dear ; 

No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 

As  the  sun-flower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose. 


ERIN,  OH  ERIN. 


49 


ERIN,  OH  ERIN. 


Like  the  bright  lamp  that  shone  in  Kildare’s  holy  fane,* 
And  burned  through  long  ages  of  darkness  and  storm, 

Is  the  heart  that  sorrows  have  frowned  on  in  vain, 

Whose  spirit  outlives  them,  unfading  and  warm. 

Erin,  oh  Erin,  thus  bright  through  the  tears 
Of  a long  night  of  bondage  thy  spirit  appears. 

The  nations  have  fallen,  and  thou  still  art  young, 

Thy  sun  is  hut  rising  when  others  are  set : 

And  though  slavery’s  cloud  o’er  thy  morning  hath  hung, 
The  full  moon  of  freedom  shall  beam  round  thee  yet. 
Erin,  oh  Erin,  though  long  in  the  shade, 

Thy  star  will  shine  out  when  the  proudest  shall  fade. 

Unchilled  by  the  rain,  and  unwaked  by  the  wind, 

The  lily  lies  sleeping  through  winter’s  cold  hour, 

Till  Spring’s  light  touch  her  fetters  unbind, 

And  daylight  and  liberty  bless  the  young  flower,  f 
Thus  Erin,  oh  Erin,  thy  winter  is  past, 

And  the  hope  that  lived  through  it  shall  blossom  at  last. 

* The  inextinguishable  fire  of  St.  Bridget,  at  Kildare,  which  Girald  us  mentions. 
“ Apud  Kildariam  occurrit  Ignis  Sanctae  Brigidae,  quern  inextinguibilem  vocant ; 
non  quod  extingui  non  possit,  sed  quod  tarn  solicite  moniales  et  sanctae  mulieres 
ignem,  suppetente  materia,  fovent  et  nutriunt,  ut  a tempore  virginis  per  tot 
annorum  curricula  semper  mansit  inextinctus.’' — Girald.  Camb.  de  Mirabil. 
Hibern .,  dist.  ii.  c.  34. 

t Mrs.  H.  Tighe,  in  her  exquisite  lines  on  the  lily,  has  applied  this  image  to 
a still  more  important  object. 


7 


50 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


DRINK  TO  HER, 

Drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet’s  sigh, 

The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy. 

Oh  ! woman’s  heart  was  made 
For  minstrel’s  hands  alone  : 

By  other  fingers  played, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 

Then  here’s  to  her  who  long 
Hath  waked  the  poet’s  sigh, 

The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy. 

At  Beauty’s  door  of  glass 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood, 
They  asked  her,  “Which  might  pass?” 
She  answered,  “ He  who  could.” 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 
To  pass — but  ’twould  not  do  : 

While  Wit  a diamond  brought, 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through, 
So  here’s  to  her  who  long 
Hath  waked  the  poet’s  sigh, 

The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy. 


DRINK  TO  HER. 


51 


The  love  that  seeks  a home 

Where  wealth  or  grandeur  shines, 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold  mines. 
But  oh ! the  poet’s  love 

Can  boast  a brighter  sphere  ; 

Its  native  home’s  above, 

Though  woman  keeps  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her  who  long 
Hath  waked  the  poet’s  sigh, 

The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy. 


52 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


OH ! BLAME  NOT  THE  BARD.* 

Oh  ! blame  not  the  bard,  if  he  fly  to  the  bowers 
Where  Pleasure  lies,  carelessly  smiling  at  Fame; 

He  was  born  for  much  more,  and  in  happier  hours 
His  soul  might  have  burned  with  a holier  flame. 

The  string  that  now  languishes  loose  o’er  the  lyre, 

Might  have  bent  a proud  bow  to  the  warrior’s  dart  ;f 
And  the  lip  which  now  breathes  but  the  song  of  desire, 

Might  have  poured  the  full  tide  of  a patriot’s  heart. 

But  alas  for  his  country ! — her  pride  is  gone  by, 

And  that  spirit  is  broken,  which  never  would  bend ; 

O’er  the  ruin  her  children  in  secret  must  sigh, 

For  ’tis  treason  to  love  her,  and  death  to  defend. 

Unprized  are  her  sons,  till  they’ve  learned  to  betray ; 
Undistinguished  they  live,  if  they  shame  not  their  sires  ; 

* We  may  suppose  this  apology  to  have  been  uttered  by  one  of  those  wander- 
ing bards,  whom  Spenser  so  severely,  and  perhaps  truly,  describes  in  his  “ State 
of  Ireland,”  and  whose  poems,  he  tells  us,  “ were  sprinkled  with  some  pretty 
flowers  of  their  natural  device,  which  have  good  grace  and  comeliness  unto 
them,  the  which  it  is  great  pity  to  see  abused  to  the  gracing  of  wickedness  and 
vice,  which,  with  good  usage,  would  serve  to  adorn  and  beautify  virtue.” 
t It  is  conjectured  by  Wormius,  that  the  name  of  Ireland  is  derived  from  Yr, 
the  Runic  for  a bow , in  the  use  of  which  weapon  the  Irish  were  once  very  ex- 
pert. This  derivation  is  certainly  more  creditable  to  us  than  the  following ; 
“ So  that  Ireland  (called  the  land  of  Ire , from  the  constant  broils  therein  for  400 
years)  was  now  become  the  land  of  concord.” — Lloyd's  State  Worthies,  art.  The 
Lord  Grandison. 


53 


oh!  blame  not  the  bard. 

And  the  torch  that  would  light  them  through  dignity’s  way, 
Must  he  caught  from  the  pile  where  their  country  expires. 

Then  blame  not  the  hard,  if  in  pleasure’s  soft  dream 
He  should  try  to  forget  what  he  never  can  heal : 

Oh ! give  but  a hope — let  a vista  but  gleam 

Through  the  gloom  of  his  country,  and  mark  how  he’ll  feel ! 
That  instant,  his  heart  at  her  shrine  would  lay  down 
Every  passion  it  nursed,  every  bliss  it  adored, 

While  the  myrtle,  now  idly  entwined  with  his  crown, 

Like  the  wreath  of  Harmodius,  should  cover  his  sword.* 

But  though  glory  be  gone,  and  though  hope  fade  a'wa y, 

Thy  name,  loved  Erin,  shall  live  in  his  songs, 

Not  ev’n  in  the  hour  when  his  heart  is  most  gay, 

Will  he  lose  the  remembrance -of  thee  and  thy  wrongs. 

The  stranger  shall  hear  thy  lament  on  his  plains ; 

The  sigh  of  thy  harp  shall  be  sent  o’er  the  deep, 

Till  thy  masters  themselves,  as  they  rivet  thy  chains, 

Shall  pause  at  the  song  of  their  captive,  and  weep  ! 

* See  the  Hymn,  attributed  to  Alcaeus,  Ei>  / ivprov  k\<i6i  to  li<pos  <popri<ro) — “ I 
will  carry  my  sword,  hidden  in  myrtles,  like  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton,”  &c. 


54 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


WHILE  GAZING  ON  THE  MOON’S  LIGHT. 


While  gazing  on  the  moon’s  light, 

A moment  from  her  smile  I turned, 

To  look  at  orbs,  that,  more  bright, 

In  lone  and  distant  glory  burned. 

But,  too  far 
Each  proud  star, 

For  me  to  feel  its  warming  flame ; 

Much  more  dear 
That  mild  sphere, 

Which  near  our  planet  smiling  came  ;* 

Thus,  Mary,  be  but  thou  my  own ; 

While  brighter  eyes  unheeded  play, 

I’ll  love  those  moonlight  looks  alone, 

That  bless  my  home  and  guide  my  way. 

The  day  had  sunk  in  dim  showers, 

But  midnight  now,  with  lustre  meet, 

Illumined  all  the  pale  flowers, 

Like  hope  upon  a mourner’s  cheek. 

* “ Of  such  celestial  bodies  as  are  visible,  the  sun  excepted,  the  single  moon, 
despicable  as  it  is  in  comparison  to  most  of  the  others,  is  much  more  beneficial 
than  they  all  put  together.” — Whiston's  Theory,  &C. 

In  the  Entretiens  d'Ariste , among  other  ingenious  emblems,  we  find  a starry 
sky  without  a moon,  with  these  words,  Non  mille , quod  absens. 


WHILE  GAZING  ON  THE  MOON’S  LIGHT.  55 


I said  (while 
The  moon’s  smile 

Played  o’er  a stream  in  dimpling  bliss), 
“ The  moon  looks 
On  many  brooks, 

The  brook  can  see  no  moon  hut  this 
And  thus,  I thought,  our  fortunes  run, 
For  many  a lover  looks  to  thee, 

While  oh  ! I feel  there  is  hut  one , 

One  Mary  in  the  world  for  me. 


* This  image  was  suggested  by  the  following  thought,  which  occurs  some- 
where in  Sir  William  Jones’s  works:  “The  moon  looks  upon  many  night- 
flowers,  the  night-flower  sees  but  one  moon.” 


56 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


ILL  OMENS. 

When  daylight  was  yet  sleeping  under  the  billow, 

And  stars  in  the  heavens  still  lingering  shone, 

Young  Kitty,  all  blushing,  rose  up  from  her  pillow, 

The  last  time  she  e’er  was  to  press  it  alone. 

For  the  youth  whom  she  treasured  her  heart  and  her  soul  in, 
Had  promised  to  link  the  last  tie  before  noon  ; 

And  when  once  the  young  heart  of  a maiden  is  stolen, 

The  maiden  herself  will  steal  after  it  soon. 

As  she  looked  in  the  glass,  which  a woman  ne’er  misses, 

Nor  ever  wants  time  for  a sly  glance  or  two, 

A butterfly,  fresh  from  the  night-flower’s  kisses,* 

Flew  over  the  mirror  and  shaded  her  view. 

Enraged  with  the  insect  for  hiding  her  graces, 

She  brushed  him — he  fell,  alas  ! never  to  rise — 

“ Ah  ! such,”  said  the  girl,  “is  the  pride  of  our  faces, 

For  which  the  soul’s  innocence  too  often  dies.” 

While  she  stole  through  the  garden,  where  heart’s-ease  was 
growing, 

She  culled  some,  and  kissed  off  its  night-fallen  dew  ; 


* An  emblem  of  the  soul. 


ILL  OMENS. 


57 


And  a rose,  further  on,  looked  so  tempting  and  glowing, 

That,  spite  of  her  haste,  she  must  gather  it  too : 

But,  while  o’er  the  roses  too  carelessly  leaning, 

Her  zone  flew  in  two,  and  the  heart’s-ease  was  lost : 
u Ah ! this  means,”  said  the  girl  (and  she  sighed  at  its  mean- 
ing)> 

“ That  love  is  scarce  worth  the  repose  it  will  cost !” 


s 


58 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 


By  the  hope  within  us  springing, 

Herald  of  to-morrow’s  strife  ; 

By  that  sun,  whose  light  is  bringing 
Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life — 

Oh ! remember  life  can  be 
No  charm  for  him  who  lives  not  free  ! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave, 

Sinks  a hero  in  his  grave, 

’Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a nation’s  tears. 

Happy  is  he  o’er  whose  decline 
The  smiles  of  home  may  soothing  shine, 
And  light  him  down  the  steep  of  years  : — 
But  oh ! how  blest  they  sink  to  rest, 
Who  close  their  eyes  on  victory’s  breast 

O’er  his  watch-fire’s  fading  embers 
Now  the  foeman’s  cheek  turns  white, 
When  his  heart  that  field  remembers, 
Where  we  tamed  his  tyrant  might ! 
Never  let  him  bind  again 
A chain,  like  that  we  broke  from  then. 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 


59 


Hark  ! the  horn  of  combat  calls — 

Ere  the  golden  evening  falls, 

May  we  pledge  that  horn  in  triumph  round  !* 

Many  a heart  that  now  beats  high, 

In  slumber  cold  at  night  shall  lie, 

Nor  waken  even  at  victory’s  sound : — 

But  oh ! how  blest  that  hero’s  sleep, 

O’er  whom  a wondering  world  shall  weep  ! 


* “ The  Irish  Coma  was  not  entirely  devoted  to  martial  purposes.  In  the 
heroic  ages  our  ancestors  quaffed  Meadh  out  of  them,  as  the  Danish  hunters 
do  their  beverage  at  this  day.” — Walker. 


60 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror’s  way, 
And  lightnings  showed  the  distant  hill, 
Where  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day 
Stood  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still ! 

The  soldier’s  hope,  the  patriot’s  zeal, 

For  ever  dimmed,  for  ever  crossed — 

Oh ! who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel, 

When  all  but  life  and  honor’s  lost  ? 

The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom’s  dream, 

And  valor’s  task,  moved  slowly  by, 

While  mute  they  watched,  till  morning’s  beam 
Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die. 
There’s  yet  a world  where  souls  are  free, 
Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature’s  bliss ; 

If  death  that  world’s  bright  opening  be, 

Oh  ! who  would  live  a slave  in  this  ? 


’tis  sweet  to  think. 


61 


’TIS  SWEET  TO  THINK. 


’Tis  sweet  to  think,  that,  where’er  we  rove, 

We  are  sure  to  find  something  blissful  and  dear, 

And  that,  when  we’re  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We’ve  hut  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near!* 

The  heart,  like  a tendril,  accustomed  to  cling, 

Let  it  grow  where  it  will,  cannot  flourish  alone, 

But  will  lean  to  the  nearest  and  loveliest  thing 
It  can  twine  with  itself,  and  make  closely  its  own. 

Then  oh  ! what  pleasure,  where’er  we  rove, 

To  be  sure  to  find  something,  still,  that  is  dear, 

And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We’ve  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near. 

’Twere  a shame,  when  flowers  around  us  rise, 

To  make  light  of  the  rest,  if  the  rose  isn’t  there : 

And  the  world’s  so  rich  in  resplendent  eyes, 

’Twere  a pity  to  limit  one’s  love  to  a pair, 

* I believe  it  is  Marmontel  who  says,  “ Quandt  on  n'a  pas  ce  que  Von  aime,  il 
faut  aimer  ce  que  Von  a — There  are  so  many  matter-of-fact  people,  who  take 
such  jeux  desprit  as  this  defence  of  inconstancy  to  be  the  actual  and  genuine 
sentiments  of  him  who  writes  them,  that  they  compel  one,  in  self-defence,  to 
be  as  matter-of-fact  as  themselves,  and  to  remind  them,  that  Democritus  was 
not  the  worse  physiologist  for  having  playfully  contended  that  snow  was  black, 
nor  Erasmus  in  any  degree  the  less  wise  for  having  written  an  ingenious  enco- 
mium of  folly. 


62 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Love’s  wing  and  the  peacock’s  are  nearly  alike, 

They  are  both  of  them  bright,  but  they’re  changeable  too, 
And,  wherever  a new  beam  of  beauty  can  strike, 

It  will  tincture  Love’s  plume  with  a different  hue  ! 

Then  oh  ! what  pleasure,  where’er  we  rove, 

To  be  sure  to  find  something,  still,  that  is  dear, 

And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We’ve  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near. 


THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS.  63 


THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS.* 

Through  grief  and  through  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheered 
my  way, 

Till  hope  seemed  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round  me  lay  ; 
The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love  burned, 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turned  ; 

Yes,  slave  as  I was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 

And  blessed  even  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear  to 
thee. 

Thy  rival  was  honored,  while  thou  wert  wronged  and 
scorned, 

Thy  crown  was  of  briars,  while  gold  her  brows  adorned ; 

She  wooed  me  to  temples  while  thou  lay’st  hid  in  caves, 

Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while  thine  alas ! were  slaves  ; 
Yet  cold  in  the  earth,  at  thy  feet,  I would  rather  be, 

Than  wed  what  I love  not,  or  turn  one  thought  from  thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely,  who  say  thy  vows  are  frail — 

Hadst  thou  been  a false  one,  thy  cheek  had  looked  less  pale ! 
They  say  too,  so  long  thou  hast  worn  those  lingering  chains ; 
That  deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed  their  servile  stains — 
Oh  ! foul  is  the  slander — no  chain  could  that  soul  subdue — 
Where  shineth  thy  spirit,  there  liberty  sliineth  too  If 

* Meaning  allegorically,  the  ancient  Church  of  Ireland. 

■j"  “ Where  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is,  there  is  liberty.1’ — St.  Paul,  2 Cor  iii.  17. 


64 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


ON  MUSIC. 

When  through  life  unblest  we  rove, 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear, 

Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love, 

In  days  of  boyhood,  meet  our  ear, 

Oh ! how  welcome  breathes  the  strain  ! 
Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept ; 

Kindling  former  smiles  again 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept. 

Like  the  gale  that  sighs  along 
Beds  of  oriental  flowers, 

Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours  ; 

Filled  with  balm,  the  gale  sighs  on, 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death ; 

So,  when  pleasure’s  dream  is  gone, 

Its  memory  lives  in  Music’s  breath. 

Music  ! oh  how  faint,  how  weak, 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 

Why  should  Feeling  ever  speak, 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 

Friendship’s  balmy  words  may  feign, 

Love’s  are  ev’n  more  false  than  they ; 

Oh  ! ’tis  only  Music’s  strain 

Can  sweetly  soothe,  and  not  betray ! 


IT  IS  NOT  THE  TEAR  AT  THIS  MOMENT  SHED.  65 


IT  IS  NOT  THE  TEAR  AT  THIS  MOMENT  SHED  * 


It  is  not  the  tear  at  this  moment  shed, 

When  the  cold  turf  has  just  been  laid  o’er  him, 

That  can  tell  how  beloved  was  the  friend  that’s  fled, 

Or  how  deep  in  our  hearts  we  deplore  him. 

’Tis  the  tear,  through  many  a long  day  wept, 

’Tis  life’s  whole  path  o’ershaded ; 

’Tis  the  one  remembrance,  fondly  kept, 

When  all  lighter  griefs  have  faded. 

Thus  his  memory,  like  some  holy  light, 

Kept  alive  in  our  hearts,  will  improve  them, 

Eor  worth  shall  look  fairer,  and  truth  more  bright, 

When  we  think  how  he  lived  hut  to  love  them. 

And,  as  fresher  flowers  the  sod  perfume 
Where  buried  saints  are  lying, 

So  our  hearts  shall  borrow  a sweet’ning  bloom 
From  the  image  he  left  there  in  dying ! 

* These  lines  were  occasioned  by  the  loss  of  a very  near  and  dear  relative, 
who  died  lately  at  Madeira. 


9 


66 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARP. 

’Tis  believed  that  this  Harp  which  I wake  now  for  thee, 

Was  a Siren  of  old,  who  sang  under  the  sea ; 

And  who  often,  at  eve,  through  the  bright  waters  roved, 

To  meet  on  the  green  shore  a youth  whom  she  loved. 

But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep, 

And  in  tears,  all  the  night,  her  gold  tresses  to  steep, 

Till  Heaven  looked  with  pity  on  true-love  so  w~arm, 

And  changed  to  this  soft  Harp  the  sea-maiden’s  form. 

Still  her  bosom  rose  fair — still  her  cheeks  smiled  the  same — 
While  her  sea  beauties  gracefully  formed  the  light  frame  : 
And  her  hair,  as,  let  loose,  o’er  her  white  arm  it  fell, 

Was  changed  to  bright  chords  uttering  melody’s  spell. 

Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  Harp  so  long  hath  been  known 
To  mingle  love’s  language  with  sorrow’s  sad  tone ; 

Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay, 

To  speak  love  when  I’m  near  thee,  and  grief  when  away  ! 


LOVE  S YOUNG  DREAM. 


67 


LOVE’S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

Oh  ! the  days  are  gone,  when  Beauty  bright, 
My  heart’s  chain  wove ; 

When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night, 
Was  love,  still  love. 

New  hope  may  bloom, 

And  days  may  come 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 

But  there’s  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love’s  young  dream  : 

No,  there’s  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love’s  young  dream. 

Though  the  hard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 
When  wild  youth’s  past ; 

Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frowned  before, 
To  smile  at  last : 

He’ll  never  meet 
A joy  so  sweet, 

In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 

As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman’s  ear 
His  soul-felt  flame, 

And,  at  every  close,  she  blushed  to  hear 
The  one  loved  name. 


68 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


No, — that  hallowed  form  is  ne’er  forgot 
Which  first  love  traced ; 

Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
On  memory’s  waste. 

’Twas  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed ; 

’Twas  morning’s  winged  dream ; 
’Twas  a light,  that  ne’er  can  shine  again 
On  life’s  dull  stream  : 

Oh ! ’twas  light  that  ne’er  can  shine  again 
On  life’s  dull  stream. 


WEEP  ON,  WEEP  ON. 


71 


WEEP  ON,  WEEP  ON. 


Weep  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past; 

Your  dreams  of  pride  are  o’er ; 

The  fatal  chain  is  round  you  cast, 

And  you  are  men  no  more. 

In  vain  the  hero’s  heart  hath  bled ; 

The  sage’s  tongue  hath  warned  in  vain, — 

Oh,  Freedom  ! once  thy  flame  hath  fled, 

It  never  lights  again  ! 

Weep  on — perhaps  in  after  days, 

They’ll  learn  to  love  your  name ; 

When  many  a deed  may  wake  in  praise 
That  long  hath  slept  in  blame. 

And  when  they  tread  the  ruined  aisle 

Where  rest,  at  length,  the  lord  and  slave, 

They’ll  wondering  ask,  how  hands  so  vile 
Could  conquer  hearts  so  brave  ? 

“ ’Twas  fate,”  they’ll  say,  “ a wayward  fate, 
Your  web  of  discord  wove; 

And,  while  your  tyrants  joined  in  hate, 

You  never  joined  in  love. 

But  hearts  fell  off  that  ought  to  twine, 

And  man  profaned  what  God  had  given, 

Till  some  were  heard  to  curse  the  shrine 
Where  others  knelt  to  heaven.” 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


LESBIA  HATH  A BEAMING  EYE. 

Lesbia  hath  a beaming  eye, 

But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beameth ; 
Right  and  left  its  arrows  fly, 

But  what  they  aim  at  no  one  dreameth. 
Sweeter  ’tis  to  gaze  upon 

My  Nora’s  lid  that  seldom  rises  ; 

Few  its  looks,  but  every  one, 

Like  unexpected  light,  surprises. 

Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear, 

My  gentle,  bashful  Nora  Creina, 

Beauty  lies 
In  many  eyes, 

But  love  in  yours,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 

Lesbia  wears  a robe  of  gold, 

But  all  so  close  the  nymph  hath  laced  it, 
Not  a charm  of  beauty’s  mould 

Presumes  to  stay  where  nature  placed  it. 
Oh,  my  Nora’s  gown  for  me, 

That  floats  as  wild  as  mountain  breezes, 
Leaving  every  beauty  free 

To  sink  or  swell  as  Heaven  pleases. 

Yes,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear, 

My  simple,  graceful  Nora  Creina. 


LESBIA  HATH  A BEAMING  EYE. 


73 


Nature’s  dress 
Is  loveliness — 

The  dress  you  wear,  my  Nora  Creina. 

Lesbia  hath  a wit  refined, 

But  when  its  points  are  gleaming  round  us, 
"Who  can  tell  if  they’re  designed 
To  dazzle  merely,  or  to  wound  us. 

Pillowed  on  my  Nora’s  heart 
In  safer  slumber  Love  reposes — 

Bed  of  peace  ! whose  roughest  part 
Is  hut  the  crumpling  of  the  roses. 

Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear, 

My  mild,  my  artless  Nora  Creina, 

Wit,  though  bright, 

Hath  no  such  light 

As  warms  your  eyes,  my  Nora  Creina. 


10 


T4 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


I SAW  THY  FORM  IN  YOUTHFUL  PRIME. 

I SAW  thy  form  in  youthful  prime, 

Nor  thought  that  pale  decay 

Would  steal  before  the  steps  of  Time, 

And  waste  its  bloom  away,  Mary ! 

Yet  still  thy  features  wore  that  light, 

Which  fleets  not  with  the  breath ; 

And  life  ne’er  looked  more  truly  bright 
Than  in  thy  smile  of  death,  Mary  ! 

As  streams  that  run  o’er  golden  mines, 

Yet  humbly,  calmly  glide, 

Nor  seem  to  know  the  wealth  that  shines 
Within  their  gentle  tide,  Mary  ! 

So,  veiled  beneath  the  simplest  guise, 

Thy  radiant  genius  shone, 

And  that  which  charmed  all  other  eyes 
Seemed  worthless  in  thine  own,  Mary  ! 

If  souls  could  always  dwell  above, 

Thou  ne’er  hadst  left  that  sphere ; 

Or  could  we  keep  the  souls  we  love, 

We  ne’er  had  lost  thee  here,  Mary  ! 


I SAW  THY  FORM  IN  YOUTHFUL  PRIME.  75 


Though  many  a gifted  mind  we  meet, 
Though  fairest  forms  we  see, 

To  live  with  them  is  far  less  sweet 
Than  to  remember  thee,  Mary  !* 


* I have  here  made  a feeble  effort  to  imitate  that  exquisite  inscription  of 
Shenstone’s  “Heu!  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam  ti  memi- 
nisse !” 


76 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


BY  THAT  LAKE  WHOSE  GLOOMY  SHORE.* 

By  that  Lake,  whose  gloomy  shore 
Skylark  never  warbles  o’er,f 
Where  the  cliff  hangs  high  and  steep, 

Young  Saint  Kevin  stole  to  sleep. 

“ Here,  at  least,”  he  calmly  said, 

“ Woman  ne’er  shall  find  my  bed.” 

Ah  ! the  good  Saint  little  knew 
What  that  wily  sex  can  do. 

’Twas  from  Kathleen’s  eyes  he  flew, — 

Eyes  of  most  unholy  blue  ! 

She  had  loved  him  well  and  long, 

Wished  him  hers,  nor  thought  it  wrong. 
Whereso’er  the  Saint  would  fly. 

Still  he  heard  her  light  foot  nigh ; 

East  or  west,  where’er  he  turned, 

Still  her  eyes  before  him  burned. 

On  the  hold  cliff’s  bosom  cast, 

Tranquil  now  he  sleeps  at  last ; 


* This  ballad  is  founded  upon  one  of  the  many  stories  related  of  St.  Kevin, 
whose  bed  in  the  rock  is  to  be  seen  at  Glendalough,  a most  gloomy  and  ro- 
mantic spot  in  the  County  of  Wicklow. 

t There  are  many  other  curious  traditions  concerning  this  Lake,  which  may 
be  found  in  Giraldus,  Colgan,  &c. 


BY  THAT  LAKE  WHOSE  GLOOMY  SHORE. 


77 


Dreams  of  heaven,  nor  thinks  that  e’er 
Woman’s  smile  can  haunt  him  there. 
But  nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  free 
From  her  power,  if  fond  she  be  : 

Even  now,  while  calm  he  sleeps, 
Kathleen  o’er  him  leans  and  weeps. 

Fearless  she  had  tracked  his  feet 
To  this  rocky,  wild  retreat ; 

And,  when  morning  met  his  view, 

Her  mild  glances  met  it  too, 

Ah  ! your  Saints  have  cruel  hearts  ! 
Sternly  from  his  bed  he  starts, 

And,  with  rude,  repulsive  shock, 

Hurls  her  from  the  beetling  rock. 

Glendalough  ! thy  gloomy  wave 
Soon  was  gentle  Kathleen’s  grave  ! 

Soon  the  Saint  (yet  ah  ! too  late) 

Felt  her  love,  and  mourned  her  fate. 
When  he  said,  “ Heaven  rest  her  soul !” 
Round  the  Lake  light  music  stole ; 

And  her  ghost  was  seen  to  glide, 
Smiling,  o’er  the  fatal  tide  ! 


78 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


SHE  IS  EAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 
And  lovers  are  round  her  sighing ; 

But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  is  in  his  grave  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 
Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking  ; — 

Ah ! little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  breaking. 

He  had  lived  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 

Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

Oh  ! make  her  a grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest 
When  they  promise  a glorious  morrow ; 

They’ll  shine  o’er  her  sleep,  like  a smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 


NAY,  TELL  ME  NOT. 


70 


NAY,  TELL  ME  NOT. 

Nay,  tell  me  not,  dear,  that  the  goblet  drowns 
One  charm  of  feeling,  one  fond  regret ; 

Believe  me,  a few  of  thy  angry  frowns 
Are  all  I’ve  sunk  in  its  bright  wave  yet. 

Ne’er  hath  a beam 
Been  lost  in  the  stream 
That  ever  was  shed  from  thy  form  or  soul ; 

The  spell  of  those  eyes, 

The  balm  of  thy  sighs, 

Still  float  on  the  surface,  and  hallow  my  howl. 
Then  fancy  not,  dearest,  that  wine  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me  ; 

Like  founts  that  awaken  the  pilgrim’s  zeal, 

The  bowl  hut  brightens  my  love  for  thee. 

They  tell  us  that  Love  in  his  fairy  bower 
Had  two  blush-roses,  of  birth  divine  ; 

He  sprinkled  the  one  with  a rainbow’s  shower, 
But  bathed  the  other  with  mantling  wine. 

Soon  did  the  buds 
That  drank  of  the  floods 
Distilled  by  the  rainbow  decline  and  fade ; 
While  those  which  the  tide 
Of  ruby  had  dyed 

All  blushed  into  beauty,  like  thee,  sweet  maid  1 


80 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Then  fancy  not,  dearest,  that  wine  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me  ; 
Like  founts  that  awaken  the  pilgrim’s  zeal, 
The  bowl  but  brightens  my  love  for  thee. 


AVENGING  AND  BRIGHT. 


81 


AVENGING  AND  BRIGHT. 

Avenging  and  bright  falls  the  swift  sword  of  Erin* 

On  him  who  the  brave  sons  of  Usna  betrayed  ! — 

For  every  fond  eye  he  hath  wakened  a tear  in, — 

A drop  from  his  heart-wounds  shall  weep  o’er  her  blade. 

By  the  red  cloud  that  hung  over  Conor’s  dark  dwelling, f 
When  Ulad’sJ  three  champions  lay  sleeping  in  gore — 


* The  words  of  this  song  were  suggested  by  the  very  ancient  Irish  story 
called  “ Deirdri,  or  the  Lamentable  Fate  of  the  Sons  of  Usnach,”  which  has 
been  translated  literally  from  the  Gaelic  by  Mr.  O'Flanagan  (see  vol.  i.  of 
Transactions  of  the  Gaelic  Society  of  Dublin ),  and  upon  which  it  appears  that  the 
“Darthula”  of  Macpherson  is  founded.  The  treachery  of  Conor,  King  of 
Ulster,  in  putting  to  death  the  three  sons  of  Usna,  was  the  cause  of  a desolat- 
ing war  against  Ulster,  which  terminated  in  the  destruction  of  Eman.  “ This 
story  (says  Mr.  O'Flanagan)  has  been,  from  time  immemorial,  held  in  high 
repute  as  one  of  three  tragic  stories  of  the  Irish.  These  are,  ‘ The  Death 
of  the  Children  ofTouran;’  ‘The  Death  of  the  Children  of  Lear’  (both  regard- 
ing Tuatha  de  Danans)  ; and  this,  ‘The  death  of  the  Children  of  Usnach,’ 
which  is  a Milesian  story.”  It  will  be  recollected  that,  in  another  part  of 
these  Melodies,  there  is  a ballad  upon  the  story  of  the  children  of  Lear  or  Lir ; 
“ Silent,  oh  Moyle !”  &c. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  those  sanguine  claims  to  antiquity  which  Mr. 
0 Flanagan  and  others  advance  for  the  literature  of  Ireland,  it  would  be  a very 
lasting  reproach  upon  our  nationality,  if  the  Gaelic  researches  of  this  gentleman 
did  not  meet  with  all  the  liberal  encouragement  they  merit. 

t Oh,  Nasi ! view  that  cloud  that  I here  see  in  the  sky ! I see  over  Eman- 
green  a chilling  cloud  of  blood-tinged  red.” — Deirdri' s Song. 

£ Ulster. 


11 


82 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


By  the  billows  of  war,  which  so  often,  high  swelling, 
Have  wafted  these  heroes  to  victory’s  shore — 

We  swear  to  revenge  them  ! — no  joy  shall  be  tasted, 
The  harp  shall  be  silent,  the  maiden  unwed, 

Our  halls  shall  be  mute,  and  our  fields  shall  lie  wasted, 
Till  vengeance  is  wreaked  on  the  murderer’s  head  ! 


Yes,  monarch ! though  sweet  are  our  home  recollections, 
Though  sweet  are  the  tears  that  from  tenderness  fall ; 
Though  sweet  are  our  friendships,  our  hopes,  our  affections, 
Revenge  on  a tyrant  is  sweetest  of  all ! 


WHAT  THE  BEE  IS  TO  THE  FLOWERET.  83 


WHAT  THE  BEE  IS  TO  THE  FLOWERET. 


HE. 

What  the  bee  is  to  the  floweret, 

When  he  looks  for  honey-dew, 

Through  the  leaves  that  close  embower  it, 
That  my  love,  I’ll  be  to  you. 

SHE. 

What  the  bank,  with  verdure  glowing, 

Is  to  waves  that  wander  near, 

Whispering  kisses,  while  they’re  going, 
That  I’ll  be  to  you,  my  dear. 

But,  they  say,  the  bee’s  a rover, 

Who  will  fly  when  sweets  are  gone  ; 

And,  when  once  the  kiss  is  over, 

Faithless  brooks  will  wander  on. 


HE. 

Nay,  if  flowers  will  lose  their  looks, 

If  sunny  banks  will  wear  away, 

’Tis  but  right,  that  bees  and  brooks 

Should  sip  and  kiss  them,  while  they  may. 


84 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


LOVE  AND  THE  NOVICE. 

“ Here  we  dwell,  in  holiest  bowers, 

Where  angels  of  light  o’er  our  orisons  bend ; 
Where  sighs  of  devotion  and  breathings  of  flowers 
To  heaven  in  mingled  odor  ascend. 

Do  not  disturb  our  calm,  oh  Love ! 

So  like  is  thy  form  to  the  cherubs  above, 

It  well  might  deceive  such  hearts  as  ours.” 


Love  stood  near  the  Novice  and  listened, 

And  Love  is  no  novice  in  taking  a hint ; 

His  laughing  blue  eyes  soon  with  piety  glistened 
His  rosy  wing  turned  to  heaven’s  own  tint. 

“ Who  would  have  thought,”  the  urchin  cries, 

“ That  Love  could  so  well,  so  gravely  disguise 

His  wandering  wings,  and  wounding  eyes?” 

Love  now  warms  thee,  waking  and  sleeping, 

Young  Novice,  to  him  all  thy  orisons  rise. 

He  tinges  the  heavenly  fount  with  his  weeping, 

He  brightens  the  censer’s  flame  with  his  sighs. 

Love  is  the  saint  enshrined  in  thy  breast, 

And  angels  themselves  would  admit  such  a guest, 
If  he  came  to  them  clothed  in  Piety’s  vest. 


THIS  LIFE  IS  ALL  CHEQUERED. 


85 


THIS  LIFE  IS  ALL  CHEQUERED  WITH 
PLEASURES  AND  WOES. 

This  life  is  all  chequered  with  pleasures  and  woes, 
That  chase  one  another  like  waves  of  the  deep, — 
Each  brightly  or  darkly,  as  onward  it  flows, 

Reflecting  our  eyes,  as  they  sparkle  or  weep. 

So  closely  our  whims  on  our  miseries  tread, 

That  the  laugh  is  awaked  ere  the  tear  can  be  dried ; 
And,  as  fast  as  the  rain-drop  of  Pity  is  shed, 

The  goose-plumage  of  Folly  can  turn  it  aside. 

But  pledge  me  the  cup — if  existence  would  cloy, 

With  hearts  ever  happy,  and  heads  ever  wise, 

Be  ours  the  light  Sorrow,  half-sister  to  Joy, 

And  the  light  brilliant  Folly  that  flashes  and  dies. 

p 

When  Hylas  was  sent  with  his  urn  to  the  fount, 
Through  fields  full  of  light,  with  heart  full  of  play, 
Light  rambled  the  boy,  over  meadow  and  mount, 

And  neglected  his  task  for  the  flowers  on  the  way.* 
Thus  many,  like  me,  who  in  youth  should  have  tasted 
The  fountain  that  runs  by  Philosophy’s  shrine, 

Their  time  with  the  flowers  on  the  margin  have  wasted, 
And  left  their  light  urns  all  as  empty  as  mine. 

* “ Proposito  florem  praetulit  officio.” 

Propert.  lib.  i.  eleg.  20. 


86 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


But  pledge  me  the  goblet — while  Idleness  weaves 
These  flowerets  together,  should  Wisdom  but  see 
One  bright  drop  or  two  that  has  fall’n  on  the  leaves 
From  her  fountain  divine,  ’tis  sufficient  for  me. 


OH  ! THE  SHAMROCK. 


Through  Erin’s  isle, 

To  sport  awhile, 

As  Love  and  Valor  wandered, 

With  Wit,  the  sprite, 

Whose  quiver  bright 
A thousand  arrows  squandered ; 

Where’er  they  pass, 

A triple  grass* 

Shoots  up,  with  dew-drops  streaming, 

As  softly  green 
As  emerald  seen 

Through  purest  crystal  gleaming. 

Oh ! the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock ! 
Chosen  leaf 
Of  Bard  and  Chief, 

Old  Erin’s  native  Shamrock  ! 

Says  Valor,  “ See, 

They  spring  for  me, 

Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  !” — 

* St.  Patrick  is  said  to  have  made  use  of  that  species  of  the  trefoil,  to  which 
in  Ireland  we  give  the  name  of  Shamrock,  in  explaining  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity  to  the  Pagan  Irish.  I do  not  know  if  there  be  any  other  reason  for  our 
adoption  of  this  plant  as  a national  emblem.  Hope,  among  the  Ancients,  was 
sometimes  represented  as  a beautiful  child,  standing  upon  tiptoes,  and  a trefoil 
or  three-colored  grass,  in  her  hand. 


88 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Says  Love,  “ No,  no, 

For  me  they  grow, 

My  fragrant  path  adorning.” 

But  Wit  perceives 
The  triple  leaves, 

And  cries,  “ Oh ! do  not  sever 
A type  that  blends 
Three  godlike  friends, 

Love,  Valor,  Writ,  for  ever !” 

Oh ! the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock  ! 
Chosen  leaf 
Of  Bard  and  Chief, 

Old  Erin’s  native  Shamrock ! 

So  firmly  fond 
May  last  the  bond 
They  wove  that  morn  together, 

And  ne’er  may  fall 
One  drop  of  gall 
On  Wit’s  celestial  feather  ! 

May  Love,  as  twine 
His  flowers  divine, 

Of  thorny  falsehood  weed  ’em  ! 

May  Valor  ne’er 
A standard  rear 
Against  the  cause  of  Freedom  ! 

Oh  ! the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock  ! 
Chosen  leaf 
Of  Bard  and  Chief, 

Old  Erin’s  native  Shamrock  ! 


AT  THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT. 


89 


AT  THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT. 

At  tlie  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine  eye ; 
And  I think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of  air, 

To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remembered,  even  in  the  sky  ! 

Then  I sing  the  wild  song  ’twas  once  such  pleasure  to  hear, 
When  our  voices  commingling  breathed,  like  one,  on  the  ear  ; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 

I think,  oh,  my  love ! ’tis  thy  voice  from  the  Kingdom  of 
Souls,* 

Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

* “ There  are  countries,”  says  Montaigne,  “ where  they  believe  the  souls  of 
the  happy  live  in  all  manner  of  liberty,  in  delightful  fields ; and  that  it  is  those 
souls,  repeating  the  words  we  utter,  which  we  call  Echo.” 


12 


90 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


ONE  BUMPER  AT  PARTING. 


Oxe  bumper  at  parting  ! — though  many 
Have  circled  the  board  since  we  met, 

The  fullest,  the  saddest  of  any 
Remains  to  he  crowned  by  us  yet. 

The  sweetness  that  pleasure  hath  in  it 
Is  always  so  slow  to  come  forth, 

That  seldom,  alas,  till  the  minute 
It  dies,  do  we  know  half  its  worth. 

But  come, — may  our  life’s  happy  measure 
Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up ; 

They’re  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure, 
They  die  midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

As  onward  we  journey,  how  pleasant 
To  pause  and  inhabit  awhile 
Those  few  sunny  spots,  like  the  present, 
That  ’mid  the  dull  wilderness  smile  ! 

But  Time,  like  a pitiless  master, 

Cries  “ Onward !”  and  spurs  the  gay  hour 
Ah,  never  doth  Time  travel  faster, 

Than  when  his  way  lies  among  flowers. 
But  come — may  our  life’s  happy  measure 
Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up  ; 

They’re  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure, 
They  die  ’midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 


THE  SOXG  OF  O’RUARK. 


95 


THE  SONG  OF  O’RUARK, 

PRIXCE  OP  BREFFXI.* 

The  vallev  lay  smiling  before  me, 

Where  lately  I left  her  behind  ; 

Yet  I trembled,  and  something  hung  o’er  me 
That  saddened  the  joy  of  my  mind. 

I looked  for  the  lamp  which,  she  told  me, 

Should  shine,  when  her  Pilgrim  returned ; 

But,  though  darkness  began  to  infold  me, 

No  lamp  from  the  battlements  burned. 

* These  stanzas  are  founded  upon  an  event  of  most  melancholy  importance 
to  Ireland ; if.  as  we  are  told  by  our  Irish  historians,  it  gave  England  the  first 
opportunity  of  profiting  by  our  divisions  and  subduing  us.  The  following  are 
the  circumstances,  as  related  by  O’Halloran: — !i  The  King  of  Leinster  had  long 
conceived  a violent  affection  for  Dearbhorgil,  daughter  to  the  King  of  Meath  ; 
and  though  she  had  been  for  some  time  married  to  O'Ruark,  Prince  of  Breffni, 
yet  it  could  not  restrain  his  passion.  They  carried  on  a private  correspondence, 
and  she  informed  him  that  0 Ruark  intended  soon  to  go  on  a pilgrimage  (an 
act  of  piety  frequent  in  those  days),  and  conjured  him  to  embrace  that  oppor- 
tunity of  conveying  her  from  a husband  she  detested  to  a lover  she  adored. 
Mac  Murchad  too  punctually  obeyed  the  summons,  and  had  the  lady  conveyed 
to  his  capital  of  Ferns." — The  monarch  Roderick  espoused  the  cause  of 
O’Ruark.  while  Mac  Murchad  fled  to  England,  and  obtained  the  assistance  of 
Henry  II. 

“ Such,"  adds  Giraldus  Cambrensis  (as  I find  him  in  an  old  translation),  “ is 
the  variable  and  fickle  nature  of  woman,  by  whom  all  mischiefs  in  the  world 
(for  the  most  part)  do  happen  and  come,  as  may  appear  by  Marcus  Antonius, 
and  by  the  destruction  of  Troy." 


96 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


I flew  to  her  chamber — ’twas  lonely, 

As  if  the  loved  tenant  lay  dead  ; — 

Ah,  would  it  were  death,  and  death  only  ! 

But  no,  the  young  false  one  hath  fled. 

And  there  hung  the  lute  that  could  soften 
My  very  worst  pains  into  bliss, 

While  the  hand  that  had  waked  it  so  often 
Now  throbbed  to  a proud  rival’s  kiss. 

There  was  a time,  falsest  of  women  ! 

When  Breffni’s  good  sword  would  have  sought 

That  man,  through  a million  of  foemen, 

Who  dared  but  to  wrong  thee  in  thought ! 

While  now — oh  degenerate  daughter 
Of  Erin,  how  fallen  is  thy  fame  ! 

And  through  ages  of  bondage  and  slaughter, 
Our  country  shall  bleed  for  thy  shame. 

Already  the  curse  is  upon  her, 

And  strangers  her  valleys  profane ; 

They  come  to  divide — to  dishonor, 

And  tyrants  they  long  will  remain. 

But  onward  ! — the  green  banner  rearing, 

Go,  flesh  every  sword  to  the  hilt ; 

On  our  side  is  Virtue  and  Erin, 

On  theirs  is  the  Saxon  and  Guilt. 


on!  had  we  some  bright  little  isle.  97 


OH!  HAD  WE  SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE  ISLE 
OF  OUR  OWN. 

Oh  ! had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own 
In  a blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone, 

Where  a leaf  never  dies  in  the  still-blooming  bowers, 
And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a whole  year  of  flowers ; 
Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause, 

With  so  fond  a delay, 

That  the  night  only  draws 
A thin  veil  o’er  the  day ; 

Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live, 

Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give. 

There,  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  clime, 

We  should  love  as  they  loved  in  the  first  golden  time; 
The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air, 

Would  steal  to  our  hearts,  and  make  all  summer  there. 
With  affection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers, 

And  with  hope,  like  the  bee, 

Living  always  on  flowers, 

Our  life  should  resemble  a long  day  of  light, 

And  our  death  come  on  holy  and  calm  as  the  night. 


13 


98 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


FAREWELL !— BUT  WHENEVER  YOU  WELCOME 
THE  HOUR. 

Farewell  ! — but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your  bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too, 

And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 

His  griefs  may  return,  not  a hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  his  pathway  of  pain, 
But  he  ne’er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  lingering  with  you. 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 
Where’er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 

My  soul,  happy  frends,  shall  be  with  you  that  night ; 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles, 
And  return  to  me  beaming  all  o’er  with  your  smiles — 
Too  blest,  if  it  tells  me  that,  ’mid  the  gay  cheer, 

Some  kind  voice  had  murmured,  “I  wish  he  were  here!” 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 

Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  wdiich  she  cannot  destroy ; 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 

And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 


farewell!  but  whenever  you  welcome.  99 


Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  filled ! 

Like  the  vase,  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distilled — 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase,  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 


100 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


OH ! DOUBT  ME  NOT. 


Oh  ! doubt  me  not — the  season 
Is  o’er  when  Folly  made  me  rove, 

And  now  the  vestal,  Reason, 

Shall  watch  the  fire  awaked  by  Love. 
Although  this  heart  was  early  blown, 

And  fairest  hands  disturbed  the  tree, 

They  only  shook  some  blossoms  down, 

Its  fruit  has  all  been  kept  for  thee. 

Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 
Is  o’er  when  Folly  made  me  rove, 

And  now  the  vestal,  Reason, 

Shall  watch  the  fire  awaked  by  Love. 

And  though  my  lute  no  longer 

May  sing  of  Passion’s  ardent  spell, 

Yet  trust  me,  all  the  stronger 
I feel  the  bliss  I do  not  tell. 

The  bee  through  many  a garden  roves, 

And  hums  his  lay  of  courtship  o’er, 

But,  when  he  finds  the  flower  he  loves, 

He  settles  there,  and  hums  no  more. 

Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 
Is  o’er  when  Folly  kept  me  free, 

And  now  the  vestal,  Reason, 

Shall  guard  the  flame  awaked  by  thee. 


: PHILLIP. 


SUSTAIN 


YOU  REMEMBER  ELLEN. 


101 


YOU  REMEMBER  ELLEN.* 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet’s  pride, 

How  meekly  she  blessed  her  humble  lot, 

When  the  stranger,  William,  had  made  her  his  bride, 
And  love  was  the  light  of  their  lowly  cot. 
Together  they  toiled  through  winds  and  rains, 

Till  William,  at  length,  in  sadness  said, 

“We  must  seek  our  fortunes  on  other  plains;” — 
Then,  sighing,  she  left  her  lowly  shed. 

They  roamed  a long  and  a weary  way, 

Nor  much  was  the  maiden’s  heart  at  ease, 

When  now,  at  close  of  one  stormy  day, 

They  see  a proud  castle  among  the  trees. 

“ To-night,”  said  the  youth,  “ we’ll  shelter  there; 

The  wind  blows  cold,  the  hour  is  late 
So  he  blew  the  horn  with  a chieftain’s  air, 

And  the  Porter  bowed  as  they  passed  the  gate. 

“Now,  welcome,  Lady!”  exclaimed  the  youth, 

“ This  castle  is  thine,  and  these  dark  woods  all!” 
She  believed  him  crazed,  but  his  words  were  truth, 
For  Ellen  is  Lady  of  Rosna  Hall! 


* This  ballad  was  suggested  by  a well-known  and  interesting  story  told  of 
a certain  noble  family  in  England. 


102 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


And  dearly  the  Lord  of  Rosna  loves 

What  William  the  stranger  wooed  and  wed ; 
And  the  light  of  bliss,  in  these  lordly  groves, 
Shines  pure  as  it  did  in  the  lowly  shed. 


i’d  mourn  the  hopes. 


103 


I’D  MOURN  THE  HOPES. 


I’d  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me, 

If  thy  smiles  had  left  me  too  ; 

I’d  weep  when  friends  deceive  me, 

If  thou  wert,  like  them,  untrue. 

But  while  I’ve  thee  before  me, 

With  heart  so  wTarm  and  eyes  so  bright, 
No  clouds  can  linger  o’er  me, 

That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light. 


’Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 

While  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me ; 
’Tis  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 

Unless  joy  be  shared  with  thee. 

One  minute’s  dream  about  thee 

Were  wrorth  a long,  an  endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee, 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear  ! 

And  though  the  hope  he  gone,  love, 
That  long  sparkled  o’er  our  way, 

Oh  ! we  shall  journey  on,  love, 

More  safely,  without  its  ray. 

Far  better  lights  shall  win  me 

Along  the  paths  I’ve  yet  to  roam : — 


104 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


The  mind  that  burns  within  me, 

And  pure  smiles  from  thee  at  home. 
Thus,  when  the  lamp  that  lighted 
The  traveller  at  first  goes  out, 

He  feels  awhile  benighted, 

And  looks  around  in  fear  and  doubt. 
But  soon,  the  prospect  clearing, 

By  cloudless  starlight  on  he  treads, 
And  thinks  no  lamp  so  cheering 
As  that  light  which  Heaven  sheds. 


COME  O’ER  THE  SEA. 


105 


COME  O’ER  THE  SEA. 

Come  o’er  the  sea, 

Maiden,  with  me, 

Mine  through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows ; 
Seasons  may  roll, 

But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same,  where’er  it  goes. 

Let  fate  frown  on,  so  we  love  and  part  not ; 

’Tis  life  where  thou  art,  ’tis  death  where  thou  art  not. 
Then,  come  o’er  the  sea, 

Maiden,  with  me, 

Coifie  wherever  the  wild  wind  blows  ; 

Seasons  may  roll, 

But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same,  where’er  it  goes. 

Was  not  the  sea 
Made  for  the  Free, 

Land  for  courts  and  chains  alone? 

Here  we  are  slaves, 

But,  on  the  waves, 

Love  and  Liberty’s  all  our  own. 

No  eye  to  watch,  and  no  tongue  to  wound  us, 

All  earth  forgot,  and  all  heaven  around  us — 

14  * 


106 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Then,  come  o’er  the  sea, 

Maiden,  with  me, 

Mine  through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows 
Seasons  may  roll, 

But  the  true  soul, 

Burns  the  same,  where’er  it  goes. 


HAS  SORROW  THY  YOUNG  HAYS  SHADED.  107 


HAS  SORROW  THY  YOUNG  DAYS  SHADED. 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded, 

As  clouds  o’er  the  morning  fleet  ? 

Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 

That,  even  in  sorrow,  were  sweet  ? 

Does  Time  with  his  cold  wing  wither 
Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear  ? — 

Then,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 

I’ll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 

Has  Love  to  that  soul  so  tender, 

Been  like  our  Lagenian  mine,* 

Where  sparkles  of  golden  splendor 
All  over  the  surface  shine  ? 

But  if  in  pursuit  we  go  deeper, 

Allured  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 

Ah  ! false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 

Like  Love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone. 

Has  Hope,  like  the  bird  in  the  story, f 
That  flitted  from  tree  to  tree 


* Our  Wicklow  gold-mines,  to  which  this  verse  alludes,  deserve,  I fear,  but 
too  well  the  character  here  given  of  them. 

f “ The  bird  having  got  its  prize,  settled  not  far  off'  with  the  talisman  in  his 
mouth.  The  prince  drew  near  it,  hoping jt  would  drop  it;  but,  as  he  ap- 
proached, the  bird  took  wing,  and  settled  again,”  &c. — Arabian  Nights , Kummir 
al  Zummaun , and  the  Princess  of  China. 


108 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


With  the  talisman’s  glittering  glory — 
Has  Hope  been  that  bird  to  thee  ? 

On  branch  after  branch  alighting, 

The  gem  did  she  still  display, 

And,  when  nearest  and  most  inviting, 
Then  waft  the  fair  gem  away  ? 

If  thus  the  young  hours  have  fleeted, 
When  sorrow  itself  looked  bright ; 

If  thus  the  fair  hope  hath  cheated, 

That  led  thee  along  so  light ; 

If  thus  the  cold  world  now  wither 
Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear : — 
Come,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 
I’ll  weep  with  thee  tear  for  tear. 


NO,  NOT  MORE  WELCOME. 


100 


NO,  NOT  MORE  WELCOME. 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers 
Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper’s  ear, 

When,  half  awaking  from  fearful  slumbers, 

He  thinks  the  full  choir  of  heaven  is  near, — 
Than  that  voice,  when  all  forsaken, 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain, 

Nor  thought  its  cold  pulse  would  ever  waken 
To  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 

Sweet  voice  of  comfort ! ’twas  like  the  stealing 
Of  summer  wind  through  some  wreathed  shell — 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 
Of  all  my  soul  echoed  to  its  spell ! 

’Twas  whispered  balm — ’twas  sunshine  spoken  ! — 
I’d  live  years  of  grief  and  pain 
To  have  my  long  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 
By  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 


110 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


WHEN  FIRST  I MET  THEE. 


When  first  I met  thee,  warm  and  young, 

There  shone  such  truth  about  thee, 

And  on  thy  lip  such  promise  hung, 

I did  not  dare  to  doubt  thee. 

I saw  thee  change,  yet  still  relied, 

Still  clung  with  hope  the  fonder, 

And  thought,  though  false  to  all  beside, 

From  me  thou  couldst  not  wander. 

But  go,  deceiver  ! go, — 

The  heart,  whose  hopes  could  make  it 
Trust  one  so  false,  so  low, 

Deserves  that  thou  shouldst  break  it. 

When  every  tongue  thy  follies  named, 

I fled  the  unwelcome  story; 

Or  found,  in  even  the  faults  they  blamed, 

Some  gleams  of  future  glory. 

I still  was  true  when  nearer  friends 
Conspired  to  wrong,  to  slight  thee ; 

The  heart  that  now  thy  falsehood  rends, 

Would  then  have  bled  to  right  thee. 

But  go,  deceiver  ! go, — 

Some  day,  perhaps,  thou’lt  waken 
From  pleasure’s  dream  to  know 
The  grief  of  hearts  forsaken. 


CaSBCULL.  SABTA/N. 


iSoma  day.  pn^Mop  s.  fJioiid  waken 
Trom  pleasure's  dream*  Co  know 
Tk&  proef  of  dear  to  forsaken-. 


WHEN  FIRST  I MET  THEE. 


Ill 


Even  now,  though  youth  its  bloom  has  shed, 

No  lights  of  age  adorn  thee  : 

The  few  who  loved  thee  once,  have  fled, 

And  they  who  flatter  scorn  thee. 

Thy  midnight  cup  is  pledged  to  slaves, 

No  genial  ties  enwreath  it ; 

The  smiling  there,  like  light  on  graves, 

Has  rank  cold  hearts  beneath  it. 

Go — go — though  worlds  were  thine, 

I would  not  now  surrender 
One  taintless  tear  of  mine 
For  all  thy  guilty  splendor  ! 

And  days  may  come,  thou  false  one,  yet, 

When  even  those  ties  shall  sever ; 

When  thou  wilt  call,  with  vain  regret, 

On  her  thou’st  lost  for  ever ; 

On  her  who,  in  thy  fortune’s  fall 
With  smiles  had  still  received  thee, 

And  gladly  died  to  prove  thee  all 
Her  fancy  first  believed  thee. 

Go — go — ’tis  vain  to  curse, 

’Tis  weakness  to  upbraid  thee; 

Hate  cannot  wish  thee  worse 

Than  guilt  and  shame  have  made  thee. 


112 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


WHILE  HISTORY’S  MUSE. 

While  History’s  Muse  the  memorial  was  keeping 
Of  all  that  the  dark  hand  of  Destiny  weaves, 

Beside  her  the  Genius  of  Erin  stood  weeping, 

For  hers  was  the  story  that  blotted  the  leaves. 

But  oh ! how  the  tear  in  her  eyelids  grew  bright, 

When,  after  whole  pages  of  sorrow  and  shame, 

She  saw  History  write, 

With  a pencil  of  light 

That  illumed  the  whole  volume,  her  Wellington’s  name ! 

“ Hail,  Star  of  my  Isle !”  said  the  Spirit,  all  sparklin 
With  beams  such  as  break  from  her  own  dewy  skie 

“ Through  ages  of  sorrow,  deserted  and  darkling, 

I’ve  watched  for  some  glory  like  thine  to  arise. 

For,  though  Heroes  I’ve  numbered,  unblest  was  their  lot, 

And  unhallowed  they  sleep  in  the  cross-ways  of  Fame  : — 
But  oh  ! there  is  not 
One  dishonoring  blot 

On  the  wreath  that  encircles  my  Wellington’s  name ! 

“ Yet  still  the  last  crown  of  thy  toils  is  remaining, 

The  grandest,  the  purest,  even  thou  hast  yet  known ; 

Though  proud  was  thy  task,  other  nations  unchaining, 
Ear  prouder  to  heal  the  deep  wounds  of  thy  own. 


T Ctq 


WHILE  HISTORY’S  MUSE. 


113 


At  the  foot  of  that  throne  for  whose  weal  thou  hast  stood, 
Go,  plead  for  the  land  that  first  cradled  thy  fame — 
And,  bright  o’er  the  flood 
Of  her  tears  and  her  blood, 

Let  the  rainbow  of  Hope  be  her  Wellington’s  name !” 


I 


114 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  TIME  I’YE  LOST  IN  MOOING. 


The  time  I’ve  lost  in  wooing. 

In  watching  and  pursuing 
The  light  that  lies 
In  woman’s  eyes, 

Has  been  my  heart’s  undoing. 
Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I scorned  the  lore  she  brought  me, 
My  only  books 
Were  woman’s  looks, 

And  folly’s  all  they’ve  taught  me. 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 

I hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him  the  Sprite,* 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that’s  haunted. 


* This  alludes  to  a kind  of  Irish  fairy,  which  is  to  be  met  with,  they  say,  in 
the  fields  at  dusk; — as  long  as  you  keep  your  eyes  upon  him,  he  is  fixed,  and 
in  your  power ; but  the  moment  you  look  away  (and  he  is  ingenious  in  furnish- 
ing some  inducement)  he  vanishes.  1 had  thought  that  this  was  the  sprite 
which  we  call  the  Leprechaun ; but  a high  authority  upon  such  subjects,  Lady 
Morgan  (in  a note  upon  her  national  and  interesting  novel,  0‘Donnel),  has 
given  a very  different  account  of  that  goblin. 


THE  TIME  I’VE  LOST  IN  WOOING. 


115 


Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me, 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 
Was  turned  away, 

0 ! winds  could  not  outrun  me. 

And  are  those  follies  going? 

And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 
Too  cold  or  wise 
For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing  ? 

No — vain,  alas  ! th’  endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever; — 
Poor  Wisdom’s  chance 
Against  a glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 


116 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


OH,  WHERE’S  THE  SLAVE. 

Oh,  where’s  the  slave  so  lowly, 
Condemned  to  chains  unholy, 

Who,  could  he  burst 
His  bonds  at  first, 

Would  pine  beneath  them  slowly  ? 
What  soul,  whose  wrongs  degrade  it, 
Would  wait  till  time  decayed  it, 
When  thus  its  wing 
At  once  may  spring 
To  the  throne  of  Him  who  made  it  ? 

Farewell,  Erin, — farewell,  all, 
Who  live  to  weep  our  fall ! 

Less  dear  the  laurel  growing, 

Alive,  untouched  and  blowing, 

Than  that  whose  braid 
Is  plucked  to  shade 
The  brows  with  victory  glowing. 

We  tread  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Her  green  flag  glitters  o’er  us, 

The  friends  we’ve  tried 
Are  by  our  side, 

And  the  foe  we  hate  before  us. 

Farewell,  Erin, — farewell,  all, 
Who  live  to  weep  our  fall. 


COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 


117 


COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 


Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 

Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still  here : 
Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can  o’ercast, 

And  a heart  and  a hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh ! what  was  love  made  for,  if  ’tis  not  the  same 

Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and  shame  ? 

I know  not,  I ask  not,  if  guilt’s  in  that  heart, 

I hut  know  that  I love  thee,  whatever  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  called  me  thy  Angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 

And  thy  Angel  I’ll  he,  ’mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 

Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 

And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  or  perish  there  too ! 


118 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


’TIS  GONE,  AND  FOR  EVER. 

’Tis  gone,  and  for  ever,  the  light  we  saw  breaking, 

Like  Heaven’s  first  dawn  o’er  the  sleep  of  the  dead — 
When  Man,  from  the  slumber  of  ages  awaking, 

Looked  upward,  and  blessed  the  pure  raj,  ere  it  fled. 
’Tis  gone,  and  the  gleams  it  has  left  of  its  burning 
But  deepen  the  long  night  of  bondage  and  mourning, 
That  dark  o’er  the  kingdoms  of  earth  is  returning, 

And,  darkest  of  all,  hapless  Erin,  o’er  thee. 

For  high  was  thj  hope,  when  those  glories  were  darting 
Around  thee,  through  all  the  gross  clouds  of  the  world ; 
When  Truth,  from  her  fetters  indignantly  starting, 

At  once,  like  a sun-hurst,  her  banner  unfurled.* 

Oh  ! never  shall  earth  see  a moment  so  splendid  ! 

Then,  then — had  one  Hymn  of  Deliverance  blended 
The  tongues  of  all  nations — how  sweet  had  ascended 
The  first  note  of  Liberty,  Erin,  from  thee  ! 

But,  shame  on  those  tyrants  who  envied  the  blessing ! 

And  shame  on  the  light  race  unworthy  its  good, 

Who,  at  Death’s  reeking  altar,  like  furies  caressing 
The  young  hope  of  Freedom,  baptized  it  in  blood  ! 


* “ The  Sun-burst”  was  the  fanciful  name  given  by  the  ancient  Irish  to  the 
royal  banner. 


’tis  gone,  and  for  ever. 


119 


Then  vanished  for  ever  that  fair,  sunny  vision, 
Which,  spite  of  the  slavish,  the  cold  heart’s  derision, 
Shall  long  be  remembered,  pure,  bright,  and  elysian, 
As  first  it  arose,  my  lost  Erin,  on  thee. 


120 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


I SAW  FROM  THE  BEACH. 

I saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 

A bark  o’er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on ; 

I came  when  the  sun  o’er  that  beach  was  declining, 

The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life’s  early  promise, 

So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known ; 

Each  wave,  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us, 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 

Ne’er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night ; — 

Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  Morning, 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening’s  best  light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment’s  returning, 
When  passion  first  waked  a new  life  through  his  frame, 

And  his  soul — like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in  burning — 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love’s  exquisite  flame ! 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR. 


121 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O’er  the  brow  of  Care 
Smooths  away  a wrinkle. 

Wit’s  electric  flame 
Ne’er  so  swiftly  passes, 

As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O’er  the  brow  of  Care 
Smooths  away  a wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say, 

Grasp  the  lightning’s  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starred  dominions: — 
So  we,  Sages,  sit 

And  ’mid  bumpers  bright’ning, 
From  the  heaven  of  Wit 
Draw  down  all  its  lightning. 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 
Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine’s  celestial  spirit? 

16 


122 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


It  chanced  upon  that  day, 

When,  as  hards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us ; 
The  careless  Youth,  when  up 
To  Glory’s  fount  aspiring, 

Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfered  fire  in. — 
But  oh  his  joy  ! when,  round 
The  halls  of  heaven  spying, 
Among  the  stars  he  found 
A bowl  of  Bacchus  lying. 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl, 
Remains  of  last  night’s  pleasure, 
With  which  the  Sparks  of  Soul 
Mixed  their  burning  treasure, 
Hence  the  goblet’s  shower 
Hath  such  spells  to  win  us ; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 
O’er  that  flame  within  us. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O’er  the  brow  of  Care 
Smooths  away  a wrinkle. 


DEAR  HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY. 


123 


DEAR  HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY. 


Dear  Harp  of  my  Country ! in  darkness  I found  thee, 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o’er  thee  long,* 

When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp,  I unbound  tfyee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song ! 

The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 
Have  wakened  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill ; 

But  so  oft  hast  thou  echoed  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 

That  even  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country ! farewell  to  thy  numbers, 

This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine  ! 

Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 

Till  touched  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine ; 

*In  that  rebellious  but  beautiful  song,  “ When  Erin  first  rose,”  there  is,  if  I 
recollect  right,  the  following  line: — 

“ The  dark  chain  of  Silence  was  thrown  o’er  the  deep.” 

The  Chain  of  Silence  was  a sort  of  practical  figure  of  rhetoric  among  the 
ancient  Irish.  Walker  tells  us  of  “a  celebrated  contention  for  precedence, 
between  Finn  and  Gaul,  near  Finn’s  palace  at  Ahnhaim,  where  the  attending 
bards,  anxious,  if  possible,  to  produce  a cessation  of  hostilities,  shook  the  Chain 
of  Silence,  and  flung  themselves  among  the  ranks.’*  See  also  the  Ode  to  Gaul , 
the  Son  of  Morni , in  Miss  Brookes's  Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry. 


124 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 

Have  throbbed  at  our  lay,  ’tis  thy  glory  alone ; 
I was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 
And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I waked  was  thy  own. 


MY  GENTLE  HARP. 


125 


MY  GENTLE  HARP. 

My  gentle  Harp,  once  more  I waken 
The  sweetness  of  thy  slumbering  strain  ; 

In  tears  our  last  farewell  was  taken, 

And  now  in  tears  we  meet  again. 

No  light  of  joy  hath  o’er  thee  broken, 

But,  like  those  harps,  whose  heavenly  skill 

Of  slavery,  dark  as  thine,  hath  spoken, 

Thou  hang’st  upon  the  willows  still. 

And  yet,  since  thy  last  chord  resounded, 

An  hour  of  peace  and  triumph  came, 

And  many  an  ardent  bosom  bounded 

With  hopes — that  now  are  turned  to  shame. 

Yet  even  then,  while  Peace  was  singing 
Her  halcyon  song  o’er  land  and  sea, 

Though  joy  and  hope  to  others  bringing, 

She  only  brought  new  tears  to  thee. 

Then,  who  can  ask  for  notes  of  pleasure, 

My  drooping  Harp,  from  chords  like  thine  ? 

Alas,  the  lark’s  gay  morning  measure 
As  ill  would  suit  the  swan’s  decline ! 

Or  how  shall  I,  who  love,  who  bless  thee, 
Invoke  thy  breath  for  Freedom’s  strains, 


126 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


When  even  the  wreaths  in  which  I dress  thee 
Are  sadly  mixed — half  flowers,  half  chains. 

But  come — if  yet  thy  frame  can  borrow 
One  breath  of  joy,  oh,  breathe  for  me, 

And  show  the  world,  in  chains  and  sorrow 
How  sweet  thy  music  still  can  be ; 

How  gaily,  ev’n  ’mid  gloom  surrounding, 
Thou  yet  canst  wake  at  pleasure’s  thrill — 
Like  Memnon’s  broken  image  sounding, 

’Mid  desolation  tuneful  still.* 


* “Dimidio  magic®  resonant  ubi  Memnone  chord®." — Juvenal. 


AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP. 


127 


AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 
Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 

Her  trembling  pennant  still  looked  hack 
To  that  dear  isle  ’twas  leaving : — 

So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  hind  us; 

So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we’ve  left  behind  us. 

When,  round  the  howl,  of  vanished  years 
We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming, — 

With  smiles  that  might  as  well  he  tears, 
So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming ; 

While  memory  brings  us  back  again 
Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 

Oh,  sweet’s  the  cup  that  circles  then 
To  those  we’ve  left  behind  us  ! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 
Some  isle,  or  vale  enchanting, 

Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 
And  nought  but  love  is  wanting ; 

We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss, 
If  Heaven  had  but  assigned  us 


128 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 
With  some  we’ve  left  behind  us ! 

As  travellers  oft  look  hack,  at  eve, 
When  eastward  darkly  going, 

To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 
Still  faint  behind  them  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure’s  day 
To  gloom  hath  near  consigned  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 
Of  joy  that’s  left  behind  us. 


JiNTAJV. 


IN  TIIE  MORNING  OF  LIFE. 


129 


IN  THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  morning  of  life,  when  its  cares  are  unknown, 

And  its  pleasures  in  all  their  new  lustre  begin, 

"When  we  live  in  a bright-beaming  world  of  our  own, 

And  the  light  that  surrounds  us  is  all  from  within  ; 

Oh  ’tis  not,  believe  me,  in  that  happy  time 

We  can  love,  as  in  hours  of  less  transport  we  may; — 

Of  our  smiles,  of  our  hopes,  ’tis  the  gay  sunny  prime, 
But  affection  is  truest  when  these  fade  away. 

When  we  see  the  first  glory  of  youth  pass  us  by, 

Like  a leaf  on  the  stream  that  will  never  return ; 

When  our  cup,  which  had  sparkled  with  pleasure  so  high, 
First  tastes  of  the  other , the  dark-flowing  urn ; 

Then,  then  is  the  time  when  affection  holds  sway 
With  a depth  and  a tenderness  joy  never  knew; 

Love,  nursed  among  pleasures,  is  faithless  as  they, 

But  the  Love  born  of  Sorrow,  like  Sorrow,  is  true. 

In  climes  full  of  sunshine,  though  splendid  the  flowers, 
Their  sighs  have  no  freshness,  their  odor  no  worth ; 

’Tis  the  cloud  and  the  mist  of  our  own  Isle  of  showers 
That  call  the  rich  spirit  of  fragrancy  forth. 

So  it  is  not  ’mid  splendor,  prosperity,  mirth, 

That  the  depth  of  Love’s  generous  spirit  appears  ; 

To  the  sunshine  of  smiles  it  may  first  owe  its  birth, 

But  the  soul  of  its  sweetness  is  drawn  out  by  tears. 

17 


130 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


WHEN  COLD  IN  THE  EARTH. 

When  cold  in  the  earth  lies  the  friend  thou  hast  loved, 

Be  his  faults  and  his  follies  forgot  by  thee  then ; 

Or,  if  from  their  slumber  the  veil  be  removed, 

Weep  o’er  them  in  silence,  and  close  it  again. 

And  oh  ! if  ’tis  pain  to  remember  how  far 

From  the  pathways  of  light  he  was  tempted  to  roam, 

Be  it  bliss  to  remember  that  thou  wert  the  star 
That  arose  on  his  darkness,  and  guided  him  home. 

From  thee  and  thy  innocent  beauty  first  came 

The  revealings  that  taught  him  true  love  to  adore, 

To  feel  the  bright  presence,  and  turn  him  with  shame 
From  the  idols  he  blindly  had  knelt  to  before. 

O’er  the  waves  of  a life,  long  benighted  and  wild, 

Thou  cam’st  like  a soft,  golden  calm  o’er  the  sea; 

And  if  happiness  purely  and  glowingly  smiled 
On  his  ev’ning  horizon,  the  light  was  from  thee. 

And  though,  sometimes,  the  shades  of  past  folly  might  rise, 
And  though  falsehood  again  would  allure  him  to  stray, 

He  but  turned  to  the  glory  that  dwelt  in  those  eyes, 

And  the  folly,  the  falsehood,  soon  vanished  away. 

As  the  Priests  of  the  Sun,  when  their  altar  grew  dim, 

At  the  day-beam  alone  could  its  lustre  repair, 

So,  if  virtue  a moment  grew  languid  in  him, 

He  but  flew  to  that  smile,  and  rekindled  it  there. 


REMEMBER  THEE. 


131 


REMEMBER  THEE. 

Remember  thee  ? yes,  while  there’s  life  in  this  heart, 

It  shall  never  forget  thee,  all  lorn  as  thon  art ; 

More  dear  in  thy  sorrow,  thy  gloom,  and  thy  showers, 
Than  the  rest  of  the  world  in  their  sunniest  hours. 

Wert  thou  all  that  I wish  thee,  great,  glorious,  and  free, 
First  flower  of  the  earth,  and  first  gerf)  of  the  sea, 

I might  hail  thee  with  prouder,  with  happier  brow, 

But  oh  ! could  I love  thee  more  deeply  than  now  ? 

No,  thy  chains  as  they  rankle,  thy  blood  as  it  runs, 

But  make  thee  more  painfully  dear  to  thy  sons — 

Whose  hearts,  like  the  young  of  the  desert  bird’s  nest, 
Drink  love  in  each  life-drop  that  flows  from  thy  breast. 


132 


IRISH  MELODIES, 


1VREATH  THE  BOWL. 

Wreath  the  howl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us  ; 
We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 
Should  Love  amid 
The  wreaths  be  hid, 

That  Joy,  tlT  enchanter,  brings  us, 
Ko  danger  fear, 

While  wine  is  near, 

We’ll  drown  him  if  he  stings  us. 
Then  wreath  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heaven  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 

’Twas  nectar  fed 
Of  old,  ’tis  said, 

Their  Junos,  Joves,  Apollos  ; 

And  man  may  brew, 

His  nectar  too, 

The  rich  receipt  as  follows : 


WREATH  THE  ROW  L. 


133 


Take  wine  like  this, 

Let  looks  of  bliss, 

Around  it  well  be  blended, 

Then  bring  Wit’s  beam 
To  warm  the  stream, 

And  there’s  jour  nectar  splendid ! 
So,  wreath  the  bowl 
AVith  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heaven  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 

Saj,  why  did  Time 
His  glass  sublime 
Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly, 
When  wine,  he  knew, 

Runs  brisker  through, 

And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 
Oh,  lend  it  us, 

And,  smiling  thus, 

The  glass  in  two  we’ll  sever, 

Make  pleasure  glide 
In  double  tide, 

And  fill  both  ends  for  ever ! 

Then  wreath  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heaven  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 


134 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


WHENE’ER  I SEE  THOSE  SMILING  EYES. 

Whene’er  I see  those  smiling  eyes, 

So  full  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  light, 

As  if  no  cloud  could  ever  rise, 

To  dim  a heaven  so  purely  bright — 

I sigh  to  think  how  soon  that  brow 
In  grief  may  lose  its  every  ray, 

And  that  light  heart,  so  joyous  now, 

Almost  forget  it  once  was  gay. 

For  time  will  come  with  all  its  blights, 

The  ruined  hope,  the  friend  unkind, 

And  love,  that  leaves  where’er  it  lights, 

A chilled  or  burning  heart  behind: — 
While  youth,  that  now  like  snow  appears, 
Ere  sullied  by  the  darkening  rain, 

When  once  ’tis  touched  by  sorrow’s  tears 
Will  never  shine  so  bright  again. 


IF  thou’lt  be  mine. 


135 


/ 


IF  THOU’LT  BE  MINE. 


If  thou’lt  be  mine,  the  treasures  of  air, 

Of  earth,  and  sea,  shall  lie  at  thy  feet; 

Whatever  in  fancy’s  eye  looks  fair, 

Or  in  Hope’s  sweet  music  sounds  most  sweet, 
Shall  be  ours — if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love  ! 

Bright  flowers  shall  bloom  wherever  we  rove, 

A voice  divine  shall  talk  in  each  stream, 

The  stars  shall  look  like  worlds  of  love, 

And  this  earth  be  all  one  beautiful  dream 
In  our  eyes — if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love ! 

And  thoughts  whose  source  is  hidden  and  high, 
Like  streams  that  come  from  heavenward  hills, 

Shall  keep  our  hearts,  like  meads  that  lie 
To  be  bathed  by  those  eternal  rills, 

Ever  green,  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love  ! 

All  this  and  more  the  Spirit  of  Love 

Can  breathe  o’er  them  who  feel  his  spells ; 

That  heaven  which  forms  his  home  above, 

He  can  make  on  earth,  wherever  he  dwells, 

As  thou’lt  own,  if  thou  ivilt  be  mine,  love  ! 


136 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


TO  LADIES’  EYES. 


To  Ladies’  eyes  around,  boy, 

We  can’t  refuse,  we  can’t  refuse, 

Though  bright  eyes  so  abound,  boy, 

’Tis  hard  to  choose,  ’tis  hard  to  choose. 
For  thick  as  stars  that  glisten 

Yon  airy  bowers,  yon  airy  bowers, 

The  countless  eyes  that  brighten 

This  earth  of  ours,  this  earth  of  ours. 

But  fill  the  cup — where’er,  boy, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 
We’re  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all ! so  drink  them  all ! 

Some  looks  there  are  so  holy, 

They  seem  but  given,  they  seem  but  given, 
As  shining  beacons,  solely, 

To  light  to  heaven,  to  light  to  heaven. 
While  some — oh  ! ne’er  believe  them — 

With  tempting  ray,  with  tempting  ray, 

W ould  lead  us  (God  forgive  them !) 

The  other  way,  the  other  way. 

But  fill  the  cup — where’er,  boy, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall. 
We’re  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all ! so  drink  them  all ! 


TO  ladies’  eyes. 


137 


In  some,  as  in  a mirror, 

Love  seems  portrayed,  Love  seems  portrayed, 
But  shun  the  flattering  error, 

’Tis  but  his  shade,  ’tis  but  his  shade. 

Himself  has  fixed  his  dwelling 
In  eyes  we  know,  in  eyes  we  know, 

And  lips — but  this  is  telling — 

So  here  they  go  ! so  here  they  go  ! 

Bill  up,  fill  up — where’er,  boy, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 
We’re  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all ! so  drink  them  all ! 


18 


138 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


FORGET  NOT  THE  FIELD. 

Forget  not  the  field  where  they  perished, 

The  truest,  the  last  of  the  brave, 

All  gone — and  the  bright  hope  we  cherished 
Gone  with  them  and  quenched  in  their  grave 

Oh ! could  we  from  death  hut  recover 
Those  hearts  as  they  bounded  before, 

In  the  face  of  high  heaven  to  fight  over 
That  combat  for  freedom  once  more  ; — 

Could  the  chain  for  an  instant  he  riven 
Which  tyranny  flung  round  us  then, 

No ! ’tis  not  in  Man,  nor  in  Heaven, 

To  let  Tyranny  bind  it  again  ! 

But  ’tis  past — and  though  blazoned  in  story 
The  name  of  our  victor  may  be, 

Accurst  is  the  march  of  that  glory 

Which  treads  o’er  the  hearts  of  the  free. 

Far  dearer  the  grave  or  the  prison 
Illumed  by  one  patriot’s  name, 

Than  the  trophies  of  all  who  have  risen 
On  Liberty’s  ruins  to  fame ! 


THEY  MAY  RAIL  AT  THIS  LIFE. 


139 


THEY  MAY  RAIL  AT  THIS  LIFE. 

They  may  rail  at  this  life — from  the  hour  I began  it, 

I found  it  a life  full  of  kindness  and  bliss ; 

And,  until  they  can  show  me  some  happier  planet, 

More  social  and  bright,  I’ll  content  me  with  this. 

As  long  as  the  world  has  such  lips  and  such  eyes, 

As  before  me  this  moment  enraptured  I see, 

They  may  say  what  they  will  of  their  orbs  in  the  skies, 
But  this  earth  is  the  planet  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

In  Mercury’s  star,  where  each  moment  can  bring  them, 
Hew  sunshine  and  wit  from  the  fountain  on  high, 
Though  the  nymphs  may  have  livelier  poets  to  sing  them,* 
They’ve  none,  even  there,  more  enamored  than  I. 

And,  as  long  as  this  harp  can  he  wakened  to  love, 

And  that  eye  its  divine  inspiration  shall  be, 

They  may  talk  as  they  will  of  their  Edens  above, 

But  this  earth  is  the  planet  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

In  that  star  of  the  west,  by  whose  shadowy  splendor, 

At  twilight  so  often  we’ve  roamed  through  the  dew, 
There  are  maidens,  perhaps,  who  have  bosoms  as  tender, 
And  look,  in  their  twilights,  as  lovely  as  you.f 


* “ Tous  les  habitans  de  Mercure  sont  vifs.” — Pluralite  des  Mondes. 
f “ La  Terre  pourra  etre  pour  Venus  l'etoile  du  berger  et  la  mfcre  des 
amours,  comme  Venus  Test  pour  nous.” — Pluralite  des  Mondes. 


140 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


But  though  they  were  even  more  bright  than  the  queen 
Of  that  isle  they  inhabit  in  heaven’s  blue  sea, 

As  I never  those  fair  young  celestials  have  seen, 

Why — this  earth  is  the  planet  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

As  for  those  chilly  orbs  on  the  verge  of  creation, 

Where  sunshine  and  smiles  must  be  equally  rare, 

Did  they  want  a supply  of  cold  hearts  for  that  station, 
Heaven  knows  we  have  plenty  on  earth  we  could  spare. 
Oh ! think  what  a world  we  should  have  of  it  here, 

If  the  haters  of  peace,  of  affection,  and  glee, 

Were  to  fly  up  to  Saturn’s  comfortless  sphere, 

And  leave  earth  to  such  spirits  as  you,  love,  and  me. 


oh!  for  the  swords  of  former  time!  141 


OH ! FOR  THE  SWORDS  OF  FORMER  TIME  ! 

Oh  ! for  the  swords  of  former  time  ! 

Oh ! for  the  men  who  bore  them  ! 

When,  armed  for  Right,  they  stood  sublime, 
And  tyrants  crouched  before  them  ! 

When  free  yet,  ere  courts  began 
With  honors  to  enslave  him, 

The  best  honors  worn  by  Man 

Were  those  which  Virtue  gave  him. 

Oh  for  the  sword,  &c.,  &c. 

Oh  ! for  the  Kings  who  flourished  then ! 

Oh  ! for  the  pomp  that  crowned  them  ! 
When  hearts  and  hands  of  free-born  men 
Were  all  the  ramparts  round  them ! 

When,  safe  built  on  bosoms  true, 

The  throne  was  but  the  centre, 

Round  which  Love  a circle  drew, 

That  Treason  durst  not  enter. 

Oh  ! for  the  Kings  who  flourished  then  ! 

Oh  ! for  the  pomp  that  crowned  them ! 
When  hearts  and  hands  of  free-born  men 
Were  all  the  ramparts  round  them  ! 


142 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


NE’ER  ASK  THE  HOUR. 


Ne’er  ask  the  hour — what  is  it  to  us 
How  Time  deals  out  his  treasures  ? 

The  golden  moments  lent  us  thus 
Are  not  his  coin,  but  Pleasure’s. 

If  counting  them  o’er  could  add  to  their  blisses, 

I’d  number  each  glorious  second ; 

But  moments  of  joy  are,  like  Lesbia’s  kisses, 

Too  quick  and  sweet  to  be  reckoned. 

Then  fill  the  cup — what  is  it  to  us 
How  Time  his  circle  measures? 

The  fairy  hours  we  call  up  thus 
Obey  no  wand  hut  Pleasure’s. 

Young  Joy  ne’er  thought  of  counting  hours, 

Till  Care,  one  summer’s  morning, 

Set  up,  among  his  smiling  flowers, 

A dial  by  way  of  warning. 

But  Joy  loved  better  to  gaze  on  the  sun, 

As  long  as  its  light  was  glowing, 

Than  to  watch  with  old  Care  how  the  shadow  stole  on, 
And  how  fast  that  light  was  going. 

So  fill  the  cup — what  is  it  to  us 
How  Time  his  circle  measures? 

The  fairy  hours  we  call  up  thus 
Obey  no  wand  hut  Pleasure’s. 


SAIL  ON,  SAIL  ON. 


143 


SAIL  ON,  SAIL  ON. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  thou  fearless  bark — 

Wherever  blows  the  welcome  wind, 

It  cannot  lead  to  scenes  more  dark, 

More  sad  than  those  we  leave  behind. 

Each  wave  that  passes  seems  to  say, 

“ Though  death  beneath  our  smile  may  be, 

Less  cold  we  are,  less  false  than  they, 

Whose  smiling  wrecked  thy  hopes  and  thee.” 

Sail  on,  sail  on — through  endless  space — 

Through  calm — through  tempest — stop  no  more  : 
The  stormiest  sea’s  a resting-place 

To  him  who  leaves  such  hearts  on  shore. 

Or — if  some  desert  land  we  meet, 

Where  never  yet  false-hearted  men 
Profaned  a world  that  else  were  sweet, — 

Then  rest  thee,  bark,  but  not  till  then. 


144 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  PARALLEL. 

Yes,  sad  one  of  Sion* — if  closely  resembling, 

In  shame  and  in  sorrow,  thy  withered-up  heart — 

If  drinking  deep,  deep  of  the  same  “ cup  of  trembling” 
Could  make  us  thy  children,  our  parent  thou  art. 

Like  thee  doth  our  nation  lie  conquered  and  broken, 

And  fallen  from  her  head  is  the  once  royal  crown ; 

In  her  streets,  in  her  halls,  Desolation  hath  spoken, 

And,  “ while  it  is  day  yet,  her  sun  hath  gone  down.”f 

Like  thine  doth  her  exile,  ’mid  dreams  of  returning, 

Die  far  from  the  home  it  were  life  to  behold; 

Like  thine  do  her  sons,  in  the  day  of  their  mourning, 
Remember  the  bright  things  that  blessed  them  of  old. 

Ah,  well  we  may  call  her  like  thee,  “the  Forsaken, 

Her  boldest  are  vanquished,  her  proudest  are  slaves ; 

And  the  harps  of  her  minstrels,  when  gayest  they  waken, 
Have  tones  ’mid  their  mirth  like  the  wind  over  graves ! 

* These  verses  were  written  after  the  perusal  of  a treatise  by  Mr.  Hamilton, 
professing  to  prove  that  the  Irish  were  originally  Jews. 

f “ Her  sun  is  gone  down  while  it  was  yet  day.’’ — Jer.  xv.  9. 

J“Thou  shalt  no  more  be  termed  Forsaken.” — Isaiah  lxii.  4. 


THE  PARALLEL. 


145 


Yet  hadst  thou  thy  vengeance — yet  came  there  the  morrow 
That  shines  out,  at  last,  on  the  longest  dark  night, 

When  the  sceptre,  that  smote  thee  with  slavery  and  sorrow 
Was  shivered  at  once,  like  a reed,  in  thy  sight. 

When  that  cup,  which  for  others  the  proud  Golden  City* 
Had  brimmed  full  of  bitterness,  drenched  her  own  lips ; 

And  the  world  she  had  trampled  on  heard,  without  pity, 
The  howl  in  her  halls,  and  the  cry  from  her  ships. 

When  the  curse  Heaven  keeps  for  the  haughty  came  over 
Her  merchants  rapacious,  her  rulers  unjust, 

And,  a ruin,  at  last,  for  the  earth-worm  to  cover,  f 
The  Lady  of  Kingdoms^  lay  low  in  the  dust. 


* “ How  hath  the  oppressor  ceased!  the  golden  city  ceased." — Isaiah 
xiv.  4. 

Thy  pomp  is  brought  down  to  the  grave,  ....  and  the  worms  cover 
thee.’- — Isaiah  xiv.  11. 

J“Thou  shalt  no  more  be  called  the  Lady  of  Kingdoms.” — Isaiah  xlvii.  5. 


19 


146 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


DRINK  OF  THIS  CUP. 

Drink  of  this  cup — you’ll  find  there’s  a spell  in 
Its  every  drop  ’gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 

Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 

Her  cup  was  a fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 

Would  you  forget  the  dark  world  we  are  in, 

Just  taste  of  the  bubble  that  gleams  on  the  top  of  it; 

But  would  you  rise  above  earth,  till  akin 

To  Immortals  themselves,  you  must  drain  every  drop  of  it. 
Send  round  the  cup — for  oh ! there’s  a spell  in 
Its  every  drop  ’gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 

Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 

Her  cup  was  a fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 

Never  was  philter  formed  with  such  power 

To  charm  and  bewilder  as  this  we  are  quaffing ; 

Its  magic  began  when,  in  Autumn’s  rich  hour, 

A harvest  of  gold  in  the  fields  it  stood  laughing. 

There  having,  by  Nature’s  enchantment,  been  filled 

With  the  balm  and  the  bloom  of  her  kindliest  weather, 

This  wonderful  juice  from  its  core  was  distilled 

To  enliven  such  hearts  as  are  here  brought  together. 

© © 

Then  drink  of  the  cup — you’ll  find  there’s  a spell  in 
Its  every  drop  ’gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 

Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 

Her  cup  was  a fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 


DRINK  OF  THIS  CUP. 


147 


And  though,  perhaps — but  breathe  it  to  no  one — 

Like  liquor  the  witch  brews  at  midnight  so  awful, 

This  philter  in  secret  was  first  taught  to  flow  on, 

Yet  ’tis  not  less  potent  for  being  unlawful. 

And  even  though  it  taste  of  the  smoke  of  that  flame 
Which  in  silence  extracted  its  virtue  forbidden — 

Fill  up — there’s  a fire  in  some  hearts  I could  name, 
Which  may  work  too  its  charm,  though  as  lawless  and 
hidden. 

So  drink  of  the  cup — for  oh ! there’s  a spell  in 
Its  every  drop  ’gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 

Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 

Her  cup  was  a fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 


148 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Down  in  the  valley  come  meet  me  to-night, 
And  I’ll  tell  you  your  fortune  truly 

As  ever  ’twas  told,  by  the  new  moon’s  light, 
To  a young  maiden,  shining  as  newly. 

Rut,  for  the  world,  let  no  one  be  nigh, 

Lest  haply  the  stars  should  deceive  me ; 

Such  secrets  between  you  and  me  and  the  sky 
Should  never  go  farther,  believe  me. 

If  at  that  hour  the  heavens  he  not  dim, 

My  science  shall  call  up  before  you 

A male  apparition — the  image  of  him 
Whose  destiny  ’tis  to  adore  you. 

And  if  to  that  phantom  you’ll  be  kind, 

So  fondly  around  you  he’ll  hover, 

You’ll  hardly,  my  dear,  any  difference  find 
’Twixt  him  and  a true  living  lover. 

Down  at  your  feet,  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
He’ll  kneel  with  a warmth  of  devotion — 

An  ardor  of  which  such  an  innocent  sprite 
You’d  scarcely  believe  had  a notion. 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 


149 


What  other  thoughts  and  events  may  arise, 
As  in  destiny’s  book  I’ve  not  seen  them, 
Must  only  be  left  to  the  stars  and  your  eyes 
To  settle,  ere  morning  between  them. 


150 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


OH,  YE  DEAD ! 

Oh,  ye  Dead  ! oh,  ye  Dead ! whom  we  know  by  the  light  you 
give 

From  your  cold  gleaming  eyes,  though  you  move  like  men 
who  live, 

Why  leave  you  thus  your  graves, 

In  far  off  fields  and  waves, 

Where  the  worm  and  the  sea-bird  only  know  your  bed  ; 

To  haunt  this  spot,  where  all 
Those  eyes  that  wept  your  fall, 

And  the  hearts  that  wailed  you,  like  your  own,  lie  dead  ? 

It  is  true,  it  is  true,  we  are  shadows  cold  and  wan  ; 

And  the  fair  and  the  brave  whom  we  loved  on  earth  are  gone ; 
But  still  thus,  even  in  death, 

So  sweet  the  living  breath 

Of  the  fields  and  the  flowers  in  our  youth  we  wandered  o’er, 
That  ere,  condemned  we  go 
To  freeze  ’mid  Hecla’s*  snow, 

We  would  taste  it  awhile,  and  think  we  live  once  more  ! 


* Paul  Zealand  mentions  that  there  is  a mountain  in  some  part  of  Ireland, 
where  the  ghosts  of  persons  who  have  died  in  foreign  lands  walk  about  and 
converse  with  those  they  meet,  like  living  people.  If  asked  why  they  do  not 
return  to  their  homes,  they  say  they  are  obliged  to  go  to  Mount  Hecla,  and  dis- 
appear immediately. 


o’donohue’s  mistress. 


151 


O’DONOHUE’S  MISTRESS. 


Of  all  the  fair  months  that  round  the  sun 
In  light-linked  dance  their  circles  run, 

Sweet  Mary,  shine  thou  for  me ; 

For  still,  when  thy  earliest  beams  arise, 

That  youth,  who  beneath  the  blue  lake  lies, 
Sweet  May,  returns  to  me. 

Of  all  the  bright  haunts  where  daylight  leaves 
Its  lingering  smile  on  golden  eves, 

Fair  Lake,  thou’rt  dearest  to  me ; 

For,  when  the  last  April  sun  grows  dim, 

Thy  Naiads  prepare  his  steed*  for  him 
Who  dwells,  bright  Lake,  in  thee. 


* The  particulars  of  the  tradition  respecting  O’Donohue  and  his  White  Horse, 
may  be  found  in  Mr.  Weld's  Account  of  Killarney,  or  more  fully  detailed  in 
Derrick's  Letters.  For  many  years  after  his  death,  the  spirit  of  this  hero  is 
supposed  to  have  been  seen  on  the  morning  of  May-day,  gliding  over  the  lake 
on  his  favorite  white  horse,  to  the  sound  of  sweet,  unearthly  music,  and  pre- 
ceded by  groups  of  youths  and  maidens,  who  flung  wreaths  of  delicate  spring 
flowers  in  his  path. 

Among  other  stories  connected  with  this  Legend  of  the  Lakes  it  is  said  that 
there  was  a young  and  beautiful  girl,  whose  imagination  was  so  impressed 
with  the  idea  of  this  visionary  chieftain,  that  she  fancied  herself  in  love  with 
him.  and  at  last,  in  a fit  of  insanity,  on  a May  morning,  threw  herself  into  the 
lake. 


152 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Of  all  the  proud  steeds  that  ever  bore 
Young  plumed  chiefs  on  sea  or  shore, 

White  Steed,  most  joy  to  thee  ; 

Who  still,  with  the  first  young  glance  of  spring, 
From  under  that  glorious  lake  dost  bring 
My  love,  my  Chief,  to  me. 

White,  white  as  the  sail  some  bark  unfurls, 
When  newly  launched,  thy  long  mane*  curls, 
Fair  Steed,  as  white  and  free; 

And  spirits,  from  all  the  lake’s  deep  bowers, 
Glide  o’er  the  blue  wave,  scattering  flowers 
Around  my  love  and  thee. 

Of  all  the  sweet  deaths  that  maidens  die, 

Whose  lovers  beneath  the  cold  waves  lie, 

Most  sweet  that  death  will  be, 

Which,  under  the  next  May  evening’s  light, 
When  thou  and  thy  steed  are  lost  to  sight, 

Dear  love,  I’ll  die  for  thee. 


* The  boatmen  at  Killarney  call  those  waves  which  come  on  a windy  day, 
crested  with  foam,  “ O'Donohue's  White  Horses.” 


ECHO. 


153 


ECHO. 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 
To  Music  at  night, 

"When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 

And  far  away,  o’er  lawns  and  lakes, 

Goes  answering  light ! 

Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far, 

And  far  more  sweet, 

Than  e’er  beneath  the  moonlight’s  star, 

Of  horn,  or  lute,  or  soft  guitar, 

The  songs  repeat. 

’Tis  when  the  sigh,  in  youth  sincere, 

And  only  then, — 

The  sigh  that’s  breathed  for  one  to  hear, 

Is  by  that  one,  that  only  dear, 

Breathed  back  again. 


20 


154 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


OH,  BANQUET  NOT. 


Oh,  banquet  not  in  those  shining  bowers 
Where  Youth  resorts — but  come  to  me ; 

For  mine’s  a garden  of  faded  flowers, 

More  fit  for  sorrow,  for  age,  and  thee. 

And  there  we  shall  have  our  feast  of  tears, 
And  many  a cup  in  silence  pour  ; 

Our  guests,  the  shades  of  former  years, 

Our  toasts,  to  lips  that  bloom  no  more. 

There,  while  the  myrtle’s  withering  boughs 
Their  lifeless  leaves  around  us  shed, 

Wre’ll  brim  the  bowl  to  broken  vows, 

To  friends  long  lost,  the  changed,  the  dead. 

Or,  while  some  blighted  laurel  waves 
Its  branches  o’er  the  dreary  spot, 

We’ll  drink  to  those  neglected  graves, 

Where  valor  sleeps,  unnamed,  forgot. 


THEE,  THEE,  ONLY  THEE. 


155 


\ 


THEE,  THEE,  ONLY  THEE. 


The  dawning  of  morn,  the  daylight’s  sinking, 
The  night’s  long  hours  still  find  me  thinking 
Of  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 

When  friends  are  met,  and  goblets  crowned, 
And  smiles  are  near  that  once  enchanted, 
Unreached  by  all  that  sunshine  round, 

My  soul,  like  some  dark  spot,  is  haunted 
By  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 

Whatever  in  fame’s  high  path  could  waken 
My  spirit  once  is  now  forsaken 
For  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 

Like  shores  by  which  some  headlong  hark 
To  the  ocean  hurries,  resting  never, 

Life’s  scenes  go  by  me,  bright  or  dark 
I know  not,  heed  not,  hastening  ever 
To  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 

I have  not  a joy  but  of  thy  bringing, 

And  pain  itself  seems  sweet  when  springing 
From  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 


156 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Like  spells  that  nought  on  earth  can  break, 
Till  lips  that  know  the  charm  have  spoken, 
This  heart,  howe’er  the  world  may  wake 
Its  grief,  its  scorn,  can  hut  be  broken 
By  thee,  thee,  only  thee. 


SHALL  THE  HARP  THEN  BE  SILENT.  157 


SHALL  THE  HARP  THEN  BE  SILENT. 

Shall  the  Harp  then  he  silent,  when  he  who  first  gave 
To  our  country  a name  is  withdrawn  from  all  eyes  ? 

Shall  a Minstrel  of  Erin  stand  mute  by  the  grave 
Where  the  first — where  the  last  of  her  Patriots  lies  ? 

No — faint  though  the  death-song  may  fall  from  his  lips, 
Though  his  Harp,  like  his  soul,  may  with  shadows  be  crost, 

Yet,  yet  shall  it  sound,  ’mid  a nation’s  eclipse, 

And  proclaim  to  the  world  what  a star  hath  been  lost  !* 

What  a union  of  all  the  affections  and  powers 
By  which  life  is  exalted,  embellished,  refined, 

Was  embraced  in  that  spirit — whose  centre  was  ours, 

While  its  mighty  circumference  circled  mankind. 

Oh,  who  that  loves  Erin,  or  who  that  can  see, 

Through  the  waste  of  her  annals,  that  epoch  sublime — - 

Like  a pyramid  raised  in  the  desert — where  he 
And  his  glory  stand  out  to  the  eyes  of  all  time  ; 

That  one  lucid  interval,  snatched  from  the  gloom 
And  the  madness  of  ages,  when  filled  with  his  soul, 


* It  is  only  the  first  two  verses  that  are  either  fitted  or  intended  to  be  sung. 


158 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


A nation  o’erleaped  the  dark  bounds  of  her  doom, 

And  for  one  sacred  instant,  touched  Liberty’s  goal — 

Who,  that  ever  hath  heard  him — hath  drank  at  the  source 
Of  that  wonderful  eloquence,  all  Erin’s  own, 

In  whose  high-thoughted  daring,  the  fire,  and  the  force, 

And  the  yet  untamed  spring  of  her  spirit  are  shown ; 

An  eloquence  rich,  wheresoever  its  wave 

Wandered  free  and  triumphant,  with  thoughts  that  shone 
through, 

As  clear  as  the  brook’s  “ stone  of  lustre,”  that  gave, 

With  the  flash  of  the  gem,  its  solidity  too — 

Who  that  ever  approached  him,  when  free  from  the  crowd, 

In  a home  full  of  love,  he  delighted  to  tread 

Along  the  trees  which  a nation  had  given,  and  which  bowed, 
As  if  each  brought  a new  civic  crown  for  his  head — 

Is  there  one  who  had  thus,  through  his  orbit  of  life, 

But  at  distance  observed  him — through  glory,  through  blame, 

In  the  calm  of  retreat,  in  the  grandeur  of  strife, 

Whether  shining  or  clouded,  still  high  and  the  same — 

Oh  no,  not  a heart  that  e’er  knew  him  but  mourns 

Deep,  deep  o’er  the  grave  where  such  glory  is  shrined — 

O’er  a monument  Fame  will  preserve  ’mong  the  urns 
Of  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  the  best  of  mankind. 


OH,  THE  SIGHT  ENTRANCING. 


159 


OH,  THE  SIGHT  ENTRANCING. 

Oh,  the  sight  entrancing, 

When  morning’s  beam  is  glancing 
O’er  files  arayed 
With  helm  and  blade, 

And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing ! 
When  hearts  are  all  high  beating, 

And  the  trumpet’s  voice  repeating 
That  song  whose  breath 
May  lead  to  death, 

But  never  to  retreating. 

Oh  the  sight  entrancing, 

When  morning’s  beam  is  glancing 
O’er  files  arayed 
With  helm  and  blade, 

And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing. 

Yet,  ’tis  not  helm  or  feather — 

For  ask  yon  despot,  whether 
His  plumed  bands 
Could  bring  such  hands 
And  hearts  as  ours  together. 

Leave  pomps  to  those  who  need  ’em — 
Give  man  but  heart  and  freedom, 

And  proud  he  braves 
The  gaudiest  slaves 
That  crawl  where  monarchs  lead  ’em. 


160 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


The  sword  may  pierce  the  beaver, 
Stone  walls  in  time  may  sever, 

’Tis  mind  alone, 

Worth  steel  and  stone, 

That  keeps  men  free  for  ever. 

Oh  ! that  sight  entrancing, 

When  the  morning’s  beam  is  glancing 
O’er  files  arrayed 
With  helm  and  blade, 

And  in  Freedom’s  cause  advancing  ! 


SWEET  INNISFALLEN. 


161 


SWEET  INNISFALLEN. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 

May  calm  and  sunshine  long  be  thine  ! 

How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell, 

To  feel  how  fair  shall  long  be  mine. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  long  shall  dwell 
In  memory’s  dream  that  sunny  smile 

Which  o’er  thee  on  that  evening  fell, 
When  first  I saw  thy  fairy  isle. 

’Twas  light,  indeed,  too  blest  for  one 
Who  had  to  turn  to  paths  of  care — 

Through  crowded  haunts  again  to  run, 
And  leave  thee  bright  and  silent  there ; 

No  more  unto  thy  shores  to  come, 

But,  on  the  world’s  rude  ocean  tost, 

Dream  of  thee  sometimes,  as  a home 
Of  sunshine  he  had  seen  and  lost. 

Far  better  in  thy  weeping  hours 
To  part  from  thee,  as  I do  now, 

When  mist  is  o’er  thy  blooming  bowers, 
Like  sorrow’s  veil  on  beauty’s  brow. 

21 


162 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


For,  though  unrivalled  still  thy  grace. 
Thou  dost  not  look,  as  then,  too  blest, 
But,  thus  in  shadow,  seem’st  a place 
Where  erring  man  might  hope  to  rest — 

Might  hope  to  rest,  and  find  in  thee 
A gloom  like  Eden’s  on  the  day 
He  left  its  shade,  when  every  tree, 

Like  thine,  hung  weeping  o’er  his  way. 

Weeping  or  smiling,  lovely  isle  ! 

And  all  the  lovelier  for  thy  tears — 

For,  though  but  rare  thy  sunny  smile, 

’Tis  heaven’s  own  glance  when  it  appear 

Like  feeling  hearts,  whose  joys  are  few, 
But,  when  indeed  they  come,  divine — 
The  brightest  light  the  sun  e’er  threw 
Is  lifeless  to  one  gleam  of  thine. 


’twas  one  of  those  dreams. 


163 


’TWAS  ONE  OF  THOSE  DREAMS.* 

Twas  one  of  those  dreams  that  by  music  are  brought, 

Like  a bright  summer  haze,  o’er  the  poet’s  warm  thought — 
When,  lost  in  the  future,  his  soul  wanders  on, 

And  all  of  this  life,  but  its  sweetness,  is  gone. 

The  wild  notes  he  heard  o’er  the  water  were  those 
He  had  taught  to  sing  Erin’s  dark  bondage  and  woes, 

And  the  breath  of  the  bugle  now  wafted  them  o’er 
From  Dinis’  green  isle  to  Glena’s  wTooded  shore. 

He  listened — while,  high  o’er  the  eagle’s  rude  nest, 

The  lingering  sounds  on  their  way  loved  to  rest; 

And  the  echoes  sung  back  from  their  full  mountain  choir, 
As  if  loth  to  let  song  so  enchanting  expire. 

It  seemed  as  if  every  sweet  note  that  died  here 
Was  again  brought  to  light  in  some  airier  sphere, 

Some  heaven  in  those  hills,  where  the  soul  of  the  strain 
That  had  ceased  upon  earth  was  awaking  again. 

Oh ! forgive  if,  while  listening  to  music,  whose  breath 
Seemed  to  circle  his  name  with  a charm  against  death, 


* Written  during  a visit  to  Lord  Kenmare,  at  Killarney. 


164 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


He  should  feel  a proud  spirit  within  him  proclaim, 

“ Even  so  shalt  thou  live  in  the  echoes  of  Fame : 

“ Even  so,  though  thy  memory  should  now  die  away, 
’Twill  be  caught  up  again  in  some  happier  day, 

And  the  hearts  and  the  voices  of  Erin  prolong, 

Through  the  answering  future,  thy  name  and  thy  song.” 


165 


fairest!  put  on  awhile. 


FAIREST ! PUT  OX  AWHILE. 


Fairest  ! put  on  awhile 

These  pinions  of  light  I bring  thee, 
And  o’er  thy  own  green  isle 
In  fancy  let  me  wing  thee. 

Never  did  Ariel’s  plume, 

At  golden  sunset,  hover 
O’er  scenes  so  full  of  bloom 
As  I shall  waft  thee  over. 

Fields,  where  the  Spring  delays, 

And  fearlessly  meets  the  ardor 
Of  the  warm  Summer’s  gaze, 

With  only  her  tears  to  guard  her. 
Rocks,  through  myrtle  boughs 
In  grace  majestic  frowning  ; 

Like  some  hold  wrarrior’s  brows 

That  Love  hath  just  been  crowning. 

Islets,  so  freshly  fair, 

That  never  hath  bird  come  nigh  them, 
But  from  his  course  through  air 

He  hath  been  won  down  by  them. — * 


* In  describing  the  Skeligs  (islands  of  the  Barony  of  Forth),  Dr.  Keating 


166 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Types,  sweet  maid,  of  thee, 

Whose  look,  whose  blush  inviting, 
Never  did  Love  yet  see 

From  heaven,  without  alighting. 

Lakes,  where  the  pearl  lies  hid,* 

And  caves,  where  the  gem  is  sleeping, 
Bright  as  the  tears  thy  lid 
Lets  fall  in  lonely  weeping. 

Glens, f where  Ocean  comes, 

To  ’escape  the  wild  wind’s  rancor, 
And  harbors,  worthiest  homes 

Where  Freedom’s  fleet  can  anchor. 

Then,  if,  while  scenes  so  grand, 

So  beautiful,  shine  before  thee, 

Pride  for  thy  own  dear  land 

Should  haply  be  stealing  o’er  thee, 

Oh,  let  grief  come  first, 

O’er  pride  itself  victorious — 

Thinking  how  man  hath  cursed 

What  Heaven  had  made  so  glorious. 


says,  “ There  is  a certain  attractive  virtue  in  the  soil  which  draws  down  all 
the  birds  that  attempt  to  fly  over  it,  and  obliges  them  to  light  upon  the  rock.” 

* “ Nennius,  a British  writer  of  the  ninth  century,  mentions  the  abundance 
of  pearls  in  Ireland.  Their  princes,  he  says,  hung  them  behind  their  ears ; and 
this  we  find  confirmed  by  a present  made  A.  c.  1094,  by  Gilbert, bishop  of 
Limerick,  to  Anselm,  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  of  a considerable  quantity  of 
Irish  pearls.” — OHalloran. 
t Glengariff. 


QUICK!  WE  HAVE  BUT  A SECOND. 


Quick  ! we  have  but  a second, 

Fill  round  the  cup,  while  you  may : 

For  Time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned, 

And  we  must  away,  away  ! 

Grasp  the  pleasure  that’s  flying, 

For  oh ! not  Orpheus  strain 
Could  keep  sweet  hours  from  dying, 

Or  charm  them  to  life  again. 

Then,  quick  ! we  have  but  a second, 
Fill  round  the  cup,  while  you  may : 
For  Time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned, 
And  we  must  away,  away ! 

See  the  glass,  how  it  flushes 
Like  some  young  Hebe’s  lip, 

And  half  meets  thine,  and  blushes 
That  thou  shouldst  delay  to  sip. 

Shame,  oh  shame  unto  thee, 

If  ever  thou  see’st  that  day, 

When  a cup  or  a lip  shall  woo  thee, 

And  turn  untouched  away  ! 

Then,  quick  ! we  have  but  a second, 
Fill  round,  fill  round  while  you  may 
For  Time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned, 
And  we  must  away,  away  ! 


168 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


AND  DOTH  NOT  A MEETING  LIKE  THIS. 

And  doth  not  a meeting  like  this  make  amends 
For  all  the  long  years  I’ve  been  wandering  away — 
To  see  thus  around  me  my  youth’s  early  friends, 

As  smiling  and  kind  as  in  that  happy  day  ? 

Though  haply  o’er  some  of  your  brows,  as  o’er  mine, 
The  snow-fall  of  time  may  be  stealing — what  then  ? 
Like  Alps  in  the  sunset,  thus  lighted  by  wine, 

We’ll  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  youth’s  roses  again. 


What  softened  remembrances  come  o’er  the  heart, 

In  gazing  on  those  we’ve  been  lost  to  so  long ! 

The  sorrows,  the  joys,  of  which  they  once  were  part, 
Still  round  them,  like  visions  of  yesterday,  throng. 
As  letters  some  hand  hath  invisibly  traced, 

When  held  to  the  flame  will  steal  out  on  the  sight, 
So  many  a feeling,  that  long  seemed  effaced, 

The  warmth  of  a moment  like  this  brings  to  light. 


And  thus,  as  in  Memory’s  bark,  we  shall  glide 
To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew, 
Though  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the  tide, 
The  wreck  of  full  many  a hope  shining  through, 
Yet  still,  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flowers 
That  once  made  a garden  of  all  the  gay  shore, 


AND  DOTH  NOT  A MEETING  LIKE  THIS.  169 


Deceived  for  a moment,  we’ll  think  them  still  ours, 

And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  life’s  morning  once  more.* 


So  brief  our  existence,  a glimpse,  at  the  most, 

Is  all  we  can  have  of  the  few  we  hold  dear, 

And  oft  even  joy  is  unheeded  and  lost, 

For  want  of  some  heart,  that  could  echo  it,  near. 

Ah,  well  may  we  hope,  when  this  short  life  is  gone, 

To  meet  in  some  world  of  more  permanent  bliss  ; 

For  a smile,  or  a grasp  of  the  hand,  hastening  on, 

Is  all  we  enjoy  of  each  other  in  this.f 

But,  come,  the  more  rare  such  delights  to  the  heart, 

The  more  we  should  welcome  and  bless  them  the  more, 
They’re  ours,  when  we  meet, — they  are  lost,  when  we  part, 
Like  birds  that  bring  summer  and  fly  when  ’tis  o’er. 
Thus  circling  the  cup,  hand  in  hand,  ere  we  drink, 

Let  Sympathy  pledge  us,  through  pleasure,  through  pain, 
That,  fast  as  a feeling  but  touches  one  link, 

Her  magic  shall  send  it  direct  through  the  chain. 


* “Jours  charmans,  quand  je  songe  a vos  heureux  instans, 

Je  pense  remonter  le  fleuve  de  mes  ans; 

Et  mon  cceur  enchant^  sur  sarive  fleurie 
Respire  encore  fair  pur  du  matin  de  la  vie." 

f The  same  thought  has  been  happily  expressed  by  my  friend  Mr.  Wash* 
ington  Irving,  in  his  Eracebridgz  Hall , vol.  i.  p.  213.  The  pleasure  which  I 
feel  in  calling  this  gentleman  my  friend  is  much  enhanced  by  the  reflection, 
that  he  is  too  good  an  American  to  have  admitted  me  so  readily  to  such  a 
distinction,  if  he  had  not  known  that  my  feelings  towards  the  great  and  free 
country  that  gave  him  birth  have  long  been  such  as  every  real  lover  of  the 
liberty  and  happiness  of  the  human  race  must  entertain. 


22 


1T0 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


TIIE  MOUNTAIN  SPRITE. 

In  yonder  valley  there  dwelt,  alone, 

A youth  whose  moments  had  calmly  flown, 

Till  spells  came  o’er  him,  and,  day  and  night, 

He  was  haunted  and  watched  by  a Mountain  Sprite. 

As  once,  by  moonlight,  he  wandered  o’er 
The  golden  sands  of  that  island  shore, 

A footprint  sparkled  before  his  sight — 

’Twas  the  fairy  foot  of  the  Mountain  Sprite  1 

Beside  a fountain,  one  sunny  day, 

As  bending  over  the  stream  he  lay, 

There  peeped  down  o’er  him  two  eyes  of  light, 

And  he  saw  in  that  mirror,  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

He  turned — but,  lo  ! like  a startled  bird, 

That  spirit  fled — and  the  youth  but  heard 

Sweet  music,  such  as  marks  the  flight 

Of  some  bird  of  song,  from  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

One  night,  still  haunted  by  that  bright  look, 

The  boy,  bewildered,  his  pencil  took, 

And,  guided  only  by  memory’s  light, 

Drew  the  once-seen  form  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  SPRITE. 


171 


“ Oh  ! thou,  who  lovest  the  shadow,”  cried 
A voice,  low  whispering  by  his  side, 

“Now  turn  and  see,” — here  the  youth’s  delight 
Sealed  the  rosy  lips  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

“ Of  all  the  Spirits  of  land  and  sea,” 

Then  rapt,  he  murmured,  “there’s  none  like  thee, 
And  oft,  oh ! oft,  may  thy  foot  thus  light 
In  this  lonely  bower,  sweet  Mountain  Sprite !” 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


AS  VANQUISHED  ERIN. 


As  vanquished  Erin  wept  beside 
The  Boyne’s  ill  fated  river, 

She  saw  where  Discord,  in  the  tide, 

Had  dropped  his  loaded  quiver. 

“Lie  hid,”  she  cried,  “ye  venomed  darts, 
Where  mortal  eye  may  shun  you ; 

Lie  hid — the  stain  of  manly  hearts 
That  bled  for  me  is  on  you.” 

But  vain  her  wish,  her  weeping  vain, — 

As  time  too  well  hath  taught  her — 

Each  year  the  Fiend  returns  again, 

And  dives  into  that  water; 

And  brings,  triumphant,  from  beneath 
His  shafts  of  desolation, 

And  sends  them,  winged  with  worse  than  death, 
Through  all  her  madd’ning  nation. 


Alas  for  her  who  sits  and  mourns, 
Even  now,  beside  that  river — 
Unwearied  still  the  Fiend  returns, 
And  stored  is  still  his  quiver. 


AS  VANQUISHED  ERIN. 


173 


“When  will  this  end,  ye  Powers  of  Good?” 
She  weeping  asks  for  ever ; 

But  only  hears  from  out  that  flood, 

The  Demon  answer,  “Never!” 


174 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THEY  KNOW  NOT  MY  HEART. 

TnEY  know  not  my  heart,  who  believe  there  can  be 
One  stain  of  this  earth  in  its  feelings  for  thee; 

Who  think,  while  I see  thee  in  beauty’s  young  hour, 
As  pure  as  the  morning’s  first  dew  on  the  flower, 

I could  harm  what  I love — as  the  sun’s  wanton  ray 
But  smiles  on  the  dew-drop  to  waste  it  away. 

No — beaming  with  light  as  those  young  features  are, 
There’s  a light  round  thy  heart  which  is  lovelier  far; 
It  is  not  that  cheek — ’tis  the  soul  dawning  clear 
Through  its  innocent  blush  makes  thy  beauty  so  dear 
As  the  sky  we  look  up  to,  though  glorious  and  fair, 

Is  looked  up  to  the  more,  because  heaven  lies  there ! 


I WISH  I WAS  BY  THAT  DIM  LAKE. 


175 


I WISH  I WAS  BY  THAT  DIM  LAKE. 

I wish  I was  by  that  dim  Lake* 

Where  sinful  souls  their  farewell  take 
Of  this  vain  world,  and  half-way  lie 
In  death’s  cold  shadow,  ere  they  die. 

There,  there,  far  from  thee, 

Deceitful  world,  my  home  should  he ; 

Where,  come  what  might  of  gloom  and  pain, 
False  hope  should  ne’er  deceive  again. 

The  lifeless  sky,  the  mournful  sound 
Of  unseen  waters  falling  round ; 

The  dry  leaves,  quivering  o’er  my  head, 
Like  man,  unquiet  even  when  dead ; 


* These  verses  are  meant  to  allude  to  that  ancient  haunt  of  superstition, 
called  Patrick's  Purgatory.  “ In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  regions  of  Donegal 
(says  Dr.  Campbell)  lay  a lake,  which  was  to  become  the  mystic  theatre  of 
this  fabled  and  intermediate  state.  In  the  lake  were  several  islands ; but  one 
of  them  was  dignified  with  that  called  the  Mouth  of  Purgatory,  which,  during 
the  dark  ages,  attracted  the  notice  of  all  Christendom,  and  was  the  resort  of 
penitents  and  pilgrims  from  almost  every  country  in  Europe.” 

“ It  was,”  as  the  same  writer  tells  us,  t;  one  of  the  most  dismal  and  dreary 
spots  in  the  North,  almost  inaccessible,  through  deep  glens  and  rugged  moun- 
tains, frightful  with  impending  rocks,  and  the  hollow  murmurs  of  the  western 
winds  in  dark  caverns,  peopled  only  with  such  fantastic  beings  as  the  mind, 
however  gay,  is,  from  strange  association,  wont  to  appropriate  to  such  gloomy 
scenes.” — Strictures  on  the  Ecclesiastical  and  Literary  Histoi'y  of  Ireland. 


176 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


These,  ay,  these  shall  wean 
My  soul  from  life’s  deluding  scene, 

And  turn  each  thought,  o’ercharged  with  gloom, 
Like  willows,  downward  towards  the  tomb. 

As  they,  who  to  their  couch  at  night 
Would  win  repose,  first  quench  the  light, 

So  must  the  hopes  that  keep  this  breast 
Awake  be  quenched,  ere  it  can  rest. 

Cold,  cold,  this  heart  must  grow, 

Unmoved  by  either  joy  or  woe, 

Like  freezing  founts,  where  all  that’s  thrown 
Within  their  current  turns  to  stone. 


J/u  smy  of  love,  wM&  o'er  fierlyrs 
Tk&  rosy  rays  of  eveeurzy  fell , 


SIIE  SUNG  OF  LOVE. 


177 


SIIE  SUNG  OF  LOVE. 


She  sung  of  Love,  while  o’er  her  lyre 
The  rosy  rays  of  evening  fell, 

As  if  to  feed  with  their  soft  fire 

The  soul  within  that  trembling  shell. 

The  same  rich  light  hung  o’er  her  cheek, 
And  played  around  those  lips  that  sung 

And  spoke  as  flowers  would  sing  and  speak, 
If  Love  could  lend  their  leaves  a tongue. 

But  soon  the  west  no  longer  burned, 

Each  rosy  ray  from  heaven  withdrew ; 

And  when  to  gaze  again  I turned, 

The  minstrel’s  form  seemed  fading  too. 

As  if  her  light  and  heaven’s  were  one, 

The  glory  all  had  left  that  frame  ; 

And  from  her  glimmering  lips  the  tone, 

As  from  a parting  spirit  came.* 


* The  thought  here  was  suggested  by  some  beautiful  lines  in  Mr.  Rogers's 
Poem  of  Human  Life , beginning — 

“ Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light  she  grows 
Less  and  less  earthly.’’ 

I would  quote  the  entire  passage,  but  that  I fear  to  put  my  own  humble 
imitation  of  it  out  of  countenance. 


23 


178 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Who  ever  loved,  but  had  the  thought 
That  he  and  all  he  loved  must  part  ? 
Filled  with  this  fear,  I flew  and  caught 
The  fading  image  to  my  heart — 

And  cried,  “Oh  Love-!  is  this  thy  doom  ? 

Oh  light  of  youth’s  resplendent  day  ! 
Must  ye  then  lose  your  golden  bloom, 
And  thus,  like  sunshine,  die  away?” 


SING  — SING  — MUSIC  WAS  GIVEN. 


170 


SING— SING— MUSIC  WAS  GIVEN. 

Sing — sing — Music  was  given 

To  brighten  the  gay  and  kindle  the  loving ; 

Souls  here,  like  planets  in  heaven, 

By  harmony’s  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 

Beauty  may  boast  of  her  eyes  and  her  cheeks, 

But  Love  from  the  lips  his  true  archery  wings  ; 

And  she  who  but  feathers  the  dart  when  she  speaks 
At  once  sends  it  home  to  the  heart  when  she  sings. 

Then  sing — sing — Music  was  given 

To  brighten  the  gay  and  kindle  the  loving  ; 

Souls  here,  like  planets  in  heaven, 

By  harmony’s  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 

When  Love,  rocked  by  his  mother, 

Lay  sleeping,  as  calm  as  slumber  could  make  him, 

“ Hush,  hush,”  said  Venus,  “ no  other 

Sweet  voice  but  his  own  is  worthy  to  wake  him.” 
Dreaming  of  music  he  slumbered  the  while, 

Till  faint  from  his  lip  a soft  melody  broke, 

And  Venus,  enchanted,  looked  on  with  a smile, 

While  Love  to  his  own  sweet  singing  awoke. 

Then  sing — sing — Music  was  given 

To  brighten  the  gay,  and  kindle  the  loving ; 

Souls  here,  like  planets  in  heaven, 

By  harmony’s  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 


18') 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THOUGH  HUMBLE  THE  BANQUET. 

Though  humble  the  banquet  to  which  I invite  thee, 

Thou’lt  find  there  the  best  a poor  bard  can  command: 

Eyes  beaming  with  welcome  shall  throng  round  to  light  thee, 
And  Love  serve  the  feast  with  his  own  willing  hand. 


And  though  fortune  may  seem  to  have  turned  from  the  dwelling 
Of  him  thou  regardest  her  favoring  ray, 

Thou  wilt  find  there  a gift,  all  her  treasures  excelling, 

Which  proudly  he  feels,  hath  ennobled  his  way. 

’Tis  that  freedom  of  mind  which  no  vulgar  dominion 
Can  turn  from  the  path  a pure  conscience  approves; 

Which,  with  hope  in  the  heart,  and  no  chain  on  the  pinion, 
Holds  upwards  its  course  to  the  light  which  it  loves. 

’Tis  this  makes  the  pride  of  his  humble  retreat, 

And,  with  this,  though  of  all  other  treasures  bereaved, 

The  breeze  of  his  garden  to  him  is  more  sweet 

Than  the  costliest  incense  that  Pomp  e’er  received. 

Then  come, — if  a board  so  untempting  hath  power 
To  win  thee  from  grandeur,  its  best  shall  be  thine ; 

And  there’s  one,  long  the  light  of  the  bard’s  happy  bower, 
Who,  smiling,  will  blend  her  bright  welcome  with  mine. 


SING,  SWEET  nARP, 


181 


SING,  SWEET  HARP. 

Sing,  sweet  Harp,  oh  sing  to  me 
Some  song  of  ancient  days, 

Whose  sounds  in  this  sad  memory, 
Long  buried  dreams  shall  raise  ; — 
Some  lay  that  tells  of  vanished  fame, 
W7hose  light  once  round  us  shone  : 
Of  noble  pride  now  turned  to  shame, 
And  hopes  forever  gone. — 

Sing,  sad  Harp,  thus  sing  to  me  ; 

Alike  our  doom  is  cast, 

Both  lost  to  all  hut  memory, 

We  live  but  in  the  past. 

How  mournfully  the  midnight  air 
Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh, 

As  if  it  sought  some  echo  there 
Of  voices  long  gone  by  ; 

Of  chieftains,  now  forgot,  wTho  seemed 
The  foremost  then  in  fame  ; 

Of  bards,  who,  once  immortal  deemed, 
Now  sleep  without  a name  ! — 

In  vain,  sad  Harp,  the  midnight  air 
Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh ; 

In  vain  it  seeks  an  echo  there 
Of  voices  long  gone  by. 


182 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Couldst  thou  but  call  those  spirits  round, 
Who  once,  in  bower  and  hall, 

Sate  listening  to  thy  magic  sound, 

Now  mute  and  mouldering  all  ; 

But  no  ; they  would  but  wake  to  weep 
Their  children’s  slavery ; 

Then  leave  them  in  their  dreamless  sleep, 
The  dead,  at  least,  are  free. 

Hush,  hush,  sad  Harp,  that  dreary  tone, 
That  knell  of  Freedom’s  day, 

Or,  listening  to  its  death-like  moan, 

Let  me,  too,  die  away. 


SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE  EVE. 


183 


SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE  EYE. 


Time — the  Ninth  Century. 


To-morrow,  comrade,  we 
On  the  battle-plain  must  be, 

There  to  conquer,  or  both  lie  low ! 

The  morning-star  is  up, — 

But  there’s  wine  still  in  the  cup, 

And  we’ll  take  another  quaff,  ere  we  go,  boy,  go ; 

We’ll  take  another  quaff,  ere  we  go. 

’Tis  true,  in  manliest  eyes 
A passing  tear  will  rise, 

When  we  think  of  the  friends  we  leave  lone ; 

But  what  can  wailing  do  ? 

See,  our  goblet’s  weeping  too  ! 

With  its  tears  we’ll  chase  away  our  own,  boy,  our  own ; 
With  its  tears  we’ll  chase  away  our  own. 

But  daylight’s  stealing  on  ; — 

The  last  that  o’er  us  shone 
Saw  our  children  around  us  play ; 

The  next — ah ! where  shall  we 
And  those  rosy  urchins  be  ? 

But — no  matter — grasp  thy  sword  and  away,  boy,  away  ; 
No  matter — grasp  thy  sword  and  away  ! 


184 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Let  those  who  brook  the  chain 
Of  Saxon  or  of  Dane 
Ignobly  by  their  firesides  stay  ; 

One  sigh  to  home  he  given, 

One  heartfelt  prayer  to  heaven, 

Then,  for  Erin  and  her  cause,  boy,  hurra  ! hurra ! hurr 
Then,  for  Erin  and  her  cause,  hurra  ! 


? 


TIIE  WANDERING  BARD. 


185 


TIIE  WANDERING  BARD. 

What  life  like  that  of  the  bard  can  be, 

The  wandering  bard  who  roams  as  free 
As  the  mountain  lark  that  o’er  him  sings, 

And,  like  that  lark,  a music  brings 
Within  him,  where’er  he  comes  or  goes, — 

A fount  that  for  ever  flows ! — 

The  world’s  to  him  like  some  play-ground, 

Where  fairies  dance  their  moonlight  round; 

If  dimmed  the  turf  where  late  they  trod, 

The  elves  but  seek  some  greener  sod: 

So,  when  less  bright  his  scene  of  glee, 

To  another  away  flies  he. 

Oh,  what  would  have  been  young  Beauty’s  doom, 
Without  a bard  to  fix  her  bloom  ? 

They  tell  us,  in  the  moon’s  bright  round, 

Things  lost  in  this  dark  world  are  found; 

So  charms,  on  earth  long  passed  and  gone, 

In  the  poet’s  lay  live  on. — 

Would  ye  have  smiles  that  ne’er  grow  dim? 
You’ve  only  to  give  them  all  to  him, 

Who,  with  but  a touch  of  Fancy’s  wand, 

Can  lend  them  life,  this  life  beyond, 

And  fix  them  high,  in  Poesy’s  sky, — 

Young  stars  that  never  die. 


24 


186 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Then,  welcome  the  bard  where’er  he  comes, 
For,  though  he  hath  countless  airy  homes, 
To  which  his  wing  excursive  roves, 

Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  he  loves 
To  light  upon  earth  and  find  such  cheer 
As  brightens  our  banquet  here. 

No  matter  how  far,  how  fleet  he  flies, 
You’ve  only  to  light  up  kind  young  eyes, 
Such  signal-fires  as  here  are  given, — 

And  down  he'll  drop  from  Fancy’s  heaven, 
The  minute  such  call  to  love  or  mirth 
Proclaims  lie’s  wanting  on  earth. 


ALONE  IN  CROWDS  TO  WANDER  ON. 


187 


ALONE  IN  CROWDS  TO  WANDER  ON. 


Alone  in  crowds  to  wander  on, 

And  feel  that  all  the  charm  is  gone 
Which  voices  dear  and  eyes  beloved 
Shed  round  us  once,  where’er  we  roved — 

This,  this  the  doom  must  be 

Of  all  who’ve  loved,  and  lived  to  see 

The  few  bright  things  they  thought  would  stay 

Forever  near  them,  die  away. 

Though  fairer  forms  around  us  throng, 

Their  smiles  to  others  all  belong, 

And  want  that  charm  which  dwells  alone 
Round  those  the  fond  heart  calls  its  own. 
Where,  where  the  sunny  brow  ? 

The  long-known  voice — where  are  they  now  ? 
Thus  ask  I still,  nor  ask  in  vain, 

The  silence  answers  all  too  plain. 


Oh  what  is  Fancy’s  magic  "worth, 

If  all  her  art  cannot  call  forth 
One  bliss  like  those  we  felt  of  old 
From  lips  now  mute,  and  eyes  now  cold  ! 


188 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


No,  no, — her  spell  is  vain, — 

As  soon  could  she  bring  back  again 
Those  eyes  themselves  from  out  the  grave, 
As  wake  again  one  bliss  they  gave. 


I’VE  A SECRET  TO  TELL  THEE. 


I’ve  a secret  to  tell  thee,  but  hush ! not  here, — 
Oh  ! not  where  the  world  its  vigil  keeps : 

I’ll  seek,  to  whisper  it  in  thine  ear, 

Some  shore  where  the  Spirit  of  Silence  sleeps 
Where  summer’s  wave  unmurmuring  dies, 

Nor  fay  can  hear  the  fountain’s  gush; 

Where,  if  but  a note  her  night-bird  sighs, 

The  rose  saith,  chidingly,  “ Hush,  sweet,  hush 

There,  amid  the  deep  silence  of  that  hour, 

When  stars  can  be  heard  in  ocean  dip, 

Thyself  shall  under  some  rosy  bower, 

Sit  mute  with  thy  finger  on  thy  lip : 

Like  him,  the  boy,*  who  born  among 

The  flowers  that  on  the  Nile-stream  blush, 

Sits  ever  thus, — his  only  song 

To  earth  and  heaven,  “ Hush,  all  hush !” 


* The  God  of  Silence,  thus  pictured  by  the  Egyptians. 


190 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


SONG  OF  INNISFAIL. 


Tiiey  came  from  a land  beyond  the  sea, 

And  now  o’er  the  western  main 
Set  sail  in  their  good  ships  gallantly, 

From  the  sunny  land  of  Spain. 
u Oh,  where’s  the  Isle  we’ve  seen  in  dreams, 
Our  destined  home  or  grave  ?”* 

Thus  sung  they  as,  by  the  morning’s  beams, 
They  swept  the  Atlantic  wave. 

And,  lo ! where  afar  o’er  ocean  shines 
A sparkle  of  radiant  green, 

As  though  in  that  deep  lay  emerald  mines, 
Whose  light  through  the  wave  was  seen. 

“ ’Tis  Innisfailf — 'tis  Innisfail !” 

Rings  o’er  the  echoing  sea, 

While  bending  to  heaven,  the  warriors  hail 
That  home  of  the  brave  and  free. 


Then  turned  they  unto  the  eastern  wave, 
Where  now  their  Day-God’s  eye 


* “ Milesius  remembered  the  remarkable  prediction  of  the  principal  Druid, 
who  foretold  that  the  posterity  of  Gadelus  should  obtain  the  possession  of  a 
Western  Island  (which  was  Ireland),  and  there  inhabit." — Keating. 
f The  Island  of  Destiny,  one  of  the  ancient  names  of  Ireland. 


SONG  OF  INNISFAIL. 


191 


A look  of  such  sunny  omen  gave 
As  lighted  up  sea  and  sky. 

Nor  frown  was  seen  through  sky  or  sea, 
Nor  tear  o’er  leaf  or  sod, 

When  first  on  their  Isle  of  Destiny 
Our  great  forefathers  trod. 


192 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


TIIE  NIGIIT  DANCE. 


Strike  the  gay  harp ! see  the  moon  is  on  high, 

And,  as  true  to  her  beam  as  the  tides  of  the  ocean, 
Young  hearts,  when  they  feel  the  soft  light  of  her  eye, 
Obey  the  mute  call,  and  heave  into  motion. 

Then,  sound  notes — the  gayest,  the  lightest, 

That  ever  took  wing  when  heaven  looked  brightest ! 
Again  ! Again  ! 

Oh  ! could  such  heart-stirring  music  be  heard 
In  that  City  of  Statues  described  by  romancers, 

So  wakening  its  spell,  even  stone  would  be  stirred, 

And  statues  themselves  all  start  into  dancers  ! 


Why  then  delay,  with  such  sounds  in  our  ears, 

And  the  flower  of  Beauty’s  own  garden  before  us, — 
While  stars  overhead  leave  the  song  of  their  spheres, 
And,  listening  to  ours,  hang  wondering  o’er  us  ? 
Again,  that  strain ! — to  hear  it  thus  sounding 
Might  set  even  Death’s  cold  pulses  bounding — 

Again ! Again ! 

Oh  what  delight  when  the  youthful  and  gay, 

Each  with  eye  like  a sunbeam  and  foot  like  a feather, 
Thus  dance  like  the  Hours  to  the  music  of  May, 

And  mingle  sweet  song  and  sunshine  together  ! 


WREATII  THE  BOWL. 


193 


THERE  ARE  SOUNDS  OF  MIRTH. 


There  are  sounds  of  mirth  in  the  night-air  ringing, 
And  lamps  from  every  casement  shown ; 

While  voices  blithe  within  are  singing, 

That  seem  to  say  “ Come,”  in  every  tone. 

Ah  ! once  how  light,  in  Life’s  young  season, 

My  heart  had  leaped  at  that  sweet  lay ; 

Nor  paused  to  ask  of  grayheard  reason 
Should  I the  siren  call  obey. 


And  see — the  lamps  still  livelier  glitter, 

The  siren  lips  more  fondly  sound ; 

No,  seek,  ye  nymphs,  some  victim  fitter 
To  sink  in  your  rosy  bondage  hound. 

Shall  a hard  whom  not  the  wmrld  in  arms 
Could  bend  to  tyranny’s  rude  control, 

Thus  quail  at  sight  of  woman’s  charms, 

And  yield  to  a smile  his  freeborn  soul  ? 

Thus  sung  the  sage,  while,  slyly  stealing, 

The  nymphs  their  fetters  around  him  cast, 

And,  their  laughing  eyes,  the  while,  concealing, — 
Led  Freedom’s  Bard  their  slave  at  last. 

25 


194 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


For  the  Poet’s  heart,  still  prone  to  loving, 

Was  like  that  rock  of  the  Druid  race,* 

Which  the  gentlest  touch  at  once  set  moving, 

But  all  earth’s  power  couldn’t  cast  from  its  base. 


* The  Rocking  Stones  of  the  Druids,  some  of  which  no  force  is  able  to  di 
lodge  from  their  stations. 


OH!  ARRAN  MORE,  LOVED  ARRAN  MORE.  195 


OH ! ARRANMORE,  LOVED  ARRANMORE. 


Oh  ! Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore, 

How  oft  I dream  of  thee, 

And  of  those  days  when,  by  thy  shore, 

I wandered  young  and  free. 

Full  many  a path  I’ve  tried,  since  then, 

Through  pleasure’s  flowery  maze, 

But  ne’er  could  find  the  bliss  again 
I felt  in  those  sweet  days. 

How  blithe  upon  thy  breezy  cliff’s 
At  sunny  morn  I’ve  stood, 

With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 
That  danced  along  thy  flood ; 

Or,  when  the  western  wave  grew  bright 
With  daylight’s  parting  wing, 

Have  sought  that  Eden  in  its  light 
Which  dreaming  poets  sing  ; — * 

That  Eden,  where  th’  immortal  brave 
Dwell  in  a land  serene, — 

*‘;The  inhabitants  of  Arranmore  are  still  persuaded,  that,  in  a clear  day, 
they  can  see  from  this  coast  Hy  Brysoil,  or  the  Enchanted  Island,  the  Paradise 
of  the  Pagan  Irish,  and  concerning  which  they  relate  a number  of  romantic 
stories.” — Beaufort's  Ancient  Topography  of  Ireland. 


196 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


Whose  bowers  beyond  the  shining  wave, 
At  sunset,  oft  are  seen. 

Ah,  dream  too  full  of  sadd’ning  truth  ! 

Those  mansions  o’er  the  main 
Are  like  the  hopes  I built  in  youth, — 
As  sunny  and  as  vain ! 


LAY  HIS  SWORD  BY  HIS  SIDE. 


19T 


LAY  IIIS  SWORD  BY  HIS  SIDE. 

Lay  his  sword  by  his  side,* — it  hath  served  him  too  well. 

Not  to  rest  near  his  pillow  below ; 

To  the  last  moment  true,  from  his  hand  ere  it  fell, 

Its  point  was  still  turned  to  a flying  foe. 

Fellow-laborers  in  life,  let  them  slumber  in  death, 

Side  by  side,  as  becomes  the  reposing  brave, — 

That  sword  which  he  loved  still  unbroke  in  its  sheath, 

And  himself  unsubdued  in  his  grave. 

Yet  pause — for,  in  fancy,  a still  voice  I hear, 

As  if  breathed  from  his  brave  heart’s  remains  ; — 

Faint  echo  of  that  which,  in  Slavery’s  ear, 

Once  sounded  the  war-word,  “ Burst  your  chains  !” 

And  it  cries,  from  the  grave  where  the  hero  lies  deep, 

“ Though  the  day  of  your  Chieftain  for  ever  hath  set. 

Oh  leave  not  his  sword  thus  inglorious  to  sleep, — 

It  hath  victory’s  life  in  it  yet ! 

“ Should  some  alien,  unworthy  such  weapon  to  wield, 

Dare  to  touch  thee,  my  own  gallant  sword, 

Then  rest  in  thy  sheath,  like  a talisman  sealed, 

Or  return  to  the  grave  of  thy  chainless  lord. 

* It  was  the  custom  of  the  ancient  Irish,  in  the  manner  of  the  Scythians,  to 
bury  the  favorite  swords  of  their  heroes  along  with  them. 


198 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


But,  if  grasped  by  a band  that  hath  learned  the  proud  use 
Of  a falchion  like  thee  on  the  battle-plain, — 

Then,  at  Liberty’s  summons,  like  lightning  let  loose, 

Leap  forth  from  thy  dark  sheath  again!” 


Oil,  COULD  WE  DO  WITH  THIS  WORLD.  199 


OH,  COULD  WE  DO  WITH  THIS  WORLD  OF  OURS. 

On,  could  we  do  with  this  world  of  ours 
As  thou  dost  with  thy  garden  bowers, 

Reject  the  weeds  and  keep  the  flowers, 

What  a heaven  on  earth  we’d  make  it ! 

So  bright  a dwelling  should  be  our  own, 

So  warranted  free  from  sigh  or  frown, 

That  angels  soon  would  he  coming  down, 

By  the  week  or  month  to  take  it. 

Like  those  gay  flies  that  wing  through  air, 

And  in  themselves  a lustre  hear, 

A stock  of  light,  still  ready  there, 

Whenever  they  wish  to  use  it ; 

So  in  this  world  I’d  make  for  thee, 

Our  hearts  should  all  like  fire-flies  be, 

And  the  flash  of  wit  or  poesy 

Break  forth  whenever  we  choose  it. 

While  every  joy  that  glads  our  sphere 
Hath  still  some  shadow  hovering  near, 

In  this  new  world  of  ours,  my  dear, 

Such  shadows  will  all  be  omitted : — 

Unless  they  are  like  that  graceful  one, 

Which,  when  thou  art  dancing  in  the  sun, 

Still  near  thee,  leaves  a charm  upon 
Each  spot  where  it  hath  flitted  ! 


200 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  WINE-CUP  IS  CIRCLING. 


Tiie  wine-cup  is  circling  in  Almhin’s  hall,* 

And  its  Chief,  ’mid  his  heroes  reclining, 

Looks  up,  with  a sigh,  to  the  trophied  wall, 

Where  his  sword  hangs  idly  shining. 

When,  hark ! that  shout 
From  the  vale  without, — 

“ Arm  ye  quick,  the  Dane,  the  Dane  is  nigh !” 

Every  Chief  starts  up 
From  his  foaming  cup, 

And  “ To  battle,  to  battle !”  is  the  Finian’s  cry. 

The  minstrels  have  seized  their  harps  of  gold, 

And  they  sing  such  thrilling  numbers, — 

’Tis  like  the  voice  of  the  Brave,  of  old, 

Breaking  forth  from  their  place  of  slumbers  ! 

Spear  to  buckler  rang 
As  the  minstrels  sang, 

* The  palace  of  Fin  Mac-Cumhal  (the  Fingal  of  Macpherson)  in  Leinster. 
It  was  built  on  the  top  of  a hill,  which  has  retained  from  thence  the  name  of 
the  Hill  of  Allen,  in  the  County  of  Kildare.  The  Finians,  or  Fenii,  were  the 
celebrated  National  Militia  of  Ireland,  which  this  chief  commanded.  The 
introduction  of  the  Danes  in  the  above  song  is  an  anachronism  common  to  most 
of  the  Finian  and  Ossianic  legends. 


THE  WINE-CUP  IS  CIRCLING. 


201 


And  the  Sun-burst*  o’er  them  floated  wide ; 
While  rememb’ring  the  yoke 
Which  their  fathers  broke, 

“ On  for  liberty,  for  liberty  !”  the  Finians  cried. 

Like  clouds  of  the  night  the  Northmen  came, 

O’er  the  valley  of  Almhin  lowering  ; 

While  onward  moved,  in  the  light  of  its  fame, 

That  banner  of  E rin,  towering. 

With  the  mingling  shock 
Rung  cliff  and  rock, 

While,  rank  on  rank,  the  invaders  die : 

And  the  shout  that  last 
O’er  the  dying  passed 

Was  “ Victory  ! victory  !” — the  Finian’s  cry. 


* The  name  given  to  the  banner  of  the  Irish. 


23 


202 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THOSE  DAYS. 


The  dream  of  those  days  when  first  I sung  thee  is  o’er, 

Thy  triumph  hath  stained  the  charm  thy  sorrows  then  wore, 
And  even  of  the  light  which  Hope  once  shed  o’er  thy  chains, 
Alas,  not  a gleam  to  grace  thy  freedom  remains. 

Say,  is  it  that  slavery  sunk  so  deep  in  thy  heart, 

That  still  the  dark  brand  is  there,  though  chainless  thou  art ; 
And  Freedom’s  sweet  fruit,  for  which  thy  spirit  long  burned, 
Now,  reaching  at  last  thy  lip,  to  ashes  hath  turned  ? 

Up  Liberty’s  steep  by  Truth  and  eloquence  led, 

With  eyes  on  her  temple  fixed,  how  proud  was  thy  tread ! 
Ah,  better  thou  ne’er  hadst  lived  that  summit  to  gain, 

Or  died  in  the  porch,  than  thus  dishonor  the  fane. 


FROM  THIS  HOUR  THE  PLEDGE  IS  GIVEN.  203 


FROM  THIS  HOUR  THE  PLEDGE  IS  GIVEN. 

From  this  hour  the  pledge  is  given, 

From  this  hour  my  soul  is  thine : 

Come  what  will  from  earth  or  heaven, 

Weal  or  woe,  thy  fate  be  mine  ! 

When  the  proud  and  great  stood  by  thee, 

None  dared  thy  rights  to  spurn  ; 

And,  if  now  they’re  false  and  fly  thee, 

Shall  I,  too,  basely  turn  ? 

No  : — whate’er  the  fires  that  try  thee, 

In  the  same  this  heart  shall  burn. 

Though  the  sea,  vThere  thou  embarkest, 

Offers  now  no  friendly  shore, 

Light  may  come  where  all  looks  darkest, 

Hope  hath  life,  when  life  seems  o’er. 

And  of  those  past  ages  dreaming, 

When  glory  decked  thy  brow, 

Oft  I fondly  think,  though  seeming 
So  fall’n  and  clouded  now, 

Thou’lt  again  break  forth,  all  beaming — 

None  so  bright,  so  blest  as  thou. 


204 


IRISH  MELODIES. 


SILENCE  IS  IN  OUR  EESTAL  HALLS.* 


Silence  is  in  our  festal  halls, — 

Sweet  Son  of  Song  ! thy  course  is  o’er ; 

In  vain  on  thee  sad  Erin  calls, 

Her  minstrel’s  voice  responds  no  more  ; — 
All  silent  as  th’  Eolian  shell 

Sleeps  at  the  close  of  some  bright  day, 
When  the  sweet  breeze,  that  waked  its  swell 
At  sunny  morn,  hath  died  away. 

Yet  at  our  feasts,  thy  spirit  long, 

Awaked  by  music’s  spell,  shall  rise ; 

For  name  so  linked  with  deathless  song 
Partakes  its  charm  and  never  dies : 

And  even  within  the  holy  fane, 

When  music  wafts  the  soul  to  heaven, 

One  thought  to  him,  whose  earliest  strain 
Was  echoed  there,  shall  long  be  given. 

But  where  is  now  the  cheerful  day, 

The  social  night,  when,  by  thy  side, 


* It  is  hardly  necessary,  perhaps,  to  inform  the  reader,  that  these  lines  are 
meant  as  a tribute  of  sincere  friendship  to  the  memory  of  an  oid  and  valued 
colleague  in  this  work,  Sir  John  Stevenson. 


SILENCE  IS  IN  OUR  FESTAL  HALLS. 


205 


He  now  weaves  this  parting  lay 
His  skilless  voice  "with  thine  allied ; 

And  sung  those  whose  every  tone, 

When  bard  and  minstrel  long  have  past, 
Shall  still,  in  sweetness  all  their  own, 
Embalmed  by  fame,  undying  last. 

Yes,  Erin,  thine  alone  the  fame, — 

Or,  if  thy  bard  have  shared  the  crown, 
From  thee  the  borrowed  glory  came, 

And  at  thy  feet  is  now  laid  down. 
Enough,  if  Freedom  still  inspire 
His  latest  song,  and  still  there  be, 

As  evening  closes  round  his  lyre, 

One  ray  upon  its  chords  from  thee. 


APPENDIX. 


i 


ADVERTISEMENT 


PREFIXED  TO  THE 


FIRST  AND  SECOND  NUMBERS.* 


Though  the  beauties  of  the  National  Music  of  Ireland  have 
been  very  generally  felt  and  acknowledged,  yet  it  has  hap- 
pened, through  the  want  of  appropriate  English  words,  and  of 
the  arrangement  necessary  to  adapt  them  to  the  voice,  that 
many  of  the  most  excellent  compositions  have  hitherto  remained 
in  obscurity.  It  is  intended,  therefore,  to  form  a collection 
of  the  best  Original  Irish  Melodies,  with  characteristic  sym- 
phonies and  accompaniments ; and  with  words  containing,  as 
frequently  as  possible,  allusions  to  the  manners  and  history  of 
the  country.  Sir  John  Stevenson  has  very  kindly  consented 
to  undertake  the  arrangement  of  the  airs  ; and  the  lovers  of 
simple  National  Music  may  rest  secure,  that  in  such  tasteful 
hands,  the  native  charms  of  the  original  melody  will  not  be 
sacrificed  to  the  ostentation  of  science. 

* It  is,  perhaps,  necessary  to  state  that  the  “ Irish  Melodies”  were  originally 
published  in  Numbers,  to  which  the  following  advertisements,  &c.,  were  re- 
spectively prefixed. 


27 


210 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


In  the  Poetical  part,  promises  of  assistance  have  been  re- 
ceived from  several  distinguished  literary  characters  ; parti- 
cularly from  Mr.  Moore,  whose  lyrical  talent  is  so  peculiarly 
suited  to  such  a task,  and  whose  zeal  in  the  undertaking  will 
be  best  understood  from  the  following  extract  of  a letter  which 
he  has  addressed  to  Sir  John  Stevenson  on  the  subject : — 

I feel  very  anxious  that  a work  of  this  kind  should  be  un- 
dertaken. We  have  too  long  neglected  the  only  talent  for 
which  our  English  neighbors  ever  deigned  to  allow  us  any 
credit.  Our  National  Music  has  never  been  properly  col- 
lected;* and,  while  the  composers  of  the  Continent  have  en- 
riched their  operas  and  sonatas  with  melodies  borrowed  from 
Ireland, — very  often  without  even  the  honesty  of  acknowledg- 
ment,— we  have  left  these  treasures,  in  a great  degree,  un- 
claimed and  fugitive.  Thus  our  airs,  like  too  many  of  our 
countrymen,  have,  for  want  of  protection  at  home,  passed  into 
the  service  of  foreigners.  But  we  are  come,  I hope,  to  a better 
period  of  both  politics  and  music ; and  how  much  they  are 
connected,  in  Ireland  at  least,  appears  too  plainly  in  the  tone 
of  sorrow  and  depression  which  characterizes  most  of  our  early 
songs. 

The  task  which  you  propose  to  me,  of  adapting  words  to 
these  airs,  is  by  no  means  easy.  The  poet,  who  would  follow 
the  various  sentiments  which  they  express,  must  feel  and  un- 
derstand that  rapid  fluctuation  of  spirits,  that  unaccountable 
mixture  of  gloom  and  levity,  which  composes  the  character  of 
my  countrymen,  and  has  deeply  tinged  their  music.  Even  in 
their  liveliest  strains  we  find  some  melancholy  note  intrude, — 


* The  writer  forgot,  when  he  made  this  assertion,  that  the  public  are  in- 
debted to  Mr.  Bunting  for  a very  valuable  collection  of  Irish  Music  ; and  that 
the  patriotic  genius  of  Miss  Owenson  has  been  employed  upon  some  of  our 
finest  airs. 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


211 


some  minor  third  or  flat  seventh, — which  throws  its  shade  as 
it  passes,  and  makes  even  mirth  interesting.  If  Burns  had 
been  an  Irishman  (and  I would  willingly  give  up  all  our  claims 
upon  Ossian  for  him),  his  heart  would  have  been  proud  of  such 
music,  and  his  genius  would  have  made  it  immortal. 

Another  difficulty  (which  is,  however,  purely  mechanical) 
arises  from  the  irregular  structure  of  many  of  those  airs,  and 
the  lawless  kind  of  metre  which  it  will  in  consequence  be  ne- 
cessary to  adapt  to  them.  In  these  instances  the  poet  must 
write,  not  to  the  eye,  but  to  the  ear ; and  must  he  content  to 
have  his  verses  of  that  description  which  Cicero  mentions, 
“ Quos  si  cantu  spoliaveris  nuda  remanebit  oratio.”  That 
beautiful  air,  “ The  Twisting  of  the  Rope,”  which  has  all  the 
romantic  character  of  the  Swiss  Ranz  des  Vaches,  is  one  of 
those  wild  and  sentimental  rakes  which  it  will  not  be  very 
easy  to  tie  down  in  sober  wedlock  with  poetry.  However, 
notwithstanding  all  these  difficulties,  and  the  very  little  talent 
which  I can  bring  to  surmount  them,  the  design  appears  to 
me  so  truly  National,  that  I shall  feel  much  pleasure  in  giving 
it  all  the  assistance  in  my  power. 


Leicestershire,  Feb.  1807. 


212 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


ADVERTISEMENT 
TO  THE  THIRD  NUMBER. 


In  presenting  the  Third  Number  of  this  work  to  the  public, 
the  Publisher  begs  leave  to  offer  his  acknowledgment  for  the 
very  liberal  patronage  with  which  it  has  been  honored;  and 
to  express  a hope  that  the  unabated  zeal  of  those  who  have 
hitherto  so  admirably  conducted  it,  will  enable  him  t.o  continue 
it  through  many  future  Numbers  with  equal  spirit,  variety, 
and  taste.  The  stock  of  popular  melodies  is  far  from  being 
exhausted ; and  there  is  still  in  reserve  an  abundance  of  beau- 
tiful airs,  which  call  upon  Mr.  Moore,  in  the  language  he  so 
well  understands,  to  save  them  from  the  oblivion  to  which  they 
are  hastening. 


LETTER  ON  MUSIC 

TO  THE  MARCHIONESS  DOWAGER  OF  DONEGAL. 


PREFIXED  TO  THE  THIRD  NUMBER. 


While  the  Publisher  of  these  Melodies  very  properly  in- 
scribes them  to  the  Nobility  and  Gentry  of  Ireland  in  general, 
I have  much  pleasure  in  selecting  one  from  that  number,  to 


LETTER  ON  MUSIC. 


213 


whom  my  share  of  the  work  is  particularly  dedicated.  Though 
your  ladyship  has  been  so  long  absent  from  Ireland,  I know 
that  you  remember  it  well  and  warmly — that  you  have  not 
allowed  the  charm  of  English  society,  like  the  taste  of  the 
lotus,  to  produce  oblivion  of  your  country,  but  that  even  the 
humble  tribute  which  I offer  derives  its  chief  claim  upon  your 
interest  from  the  appeal  which  it  makes  to  your  patriotism. 
Indeed,  absence,  however  fatal  to  some  affections  of  the  heart, 
rather  strengthens  our  love  for  the  land  where  we  were  born ; 
and  Ireland  is  the  country,  of  all  others,  which  an  exile  from 
it  must  remember  with  most  enthusiasm.  Those  few  darker 
and  less  amiable  traits  with  which  bigotry  and  misrule  have 
stained  her  character,  and  which  are  too  apt  to  disgust  us 
upon  a nearer  intercourse,  become  softened  at  a distance,  or 
altogether  invisible ; and  nothing  is  remembered  but  her  vir- 
tues and  her  misfortunes — the  zeal  with  which  she  has  always 
loved  liberty,  and  the  barbarous  policy  which  has  always  with- 
held it  from  her — the  ease  with  which  her  generous  spirit 
might  be  conciliated,  and  the  cruel  ingenuity  which  has  been 
exerted  to  “ wring  her  into  undutifulness. ”* 

It  has  been  often  remarked,  and  oftener  felt,  that  our  music 
is  the  truest  of  all  comments  upon  our  history.  The  tone  of 
defiance,  succeeded  by  the  languor  of  despondency — a burst 
of  turbulence  dying  away  into  softness — the  sorrows  of  one 
moment  lost  in  the  levity  of  the  next — and  all  that  romantic 
mixture  of  mirth  and  sadness,  which  is  naturally  produced  by 
the  efforts  of  a lively  temperament  to  shake  off,  or  forget,  the 
wrongs  which  lie  upon  it, — such  are  the  features  of  our  history 
and  character,  which  we  find  strongly  and  faithfully  reflected 
in  our  music ; and  there  are  even  many  airs,  which  it  is  diffi- 

* A phrase  which  occurs  in  a letter  from  the  Earl  of  Desmond  to  the  Earl 
of  Ormond,  in  Elizabeth’s  time.  Scrinia  Sacra , as  quoted  by  Curry. 


214 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


cult  to  listen  to,  without  recalling  some  period  or  event  to 
which  their  expression  seems  applicable.  Sometimes,  when 
the  strain  is  open  and  spirited,  yet  shaded  here  and  there  by 
a mournful  recollection,  we  can  fancy  that  wTe  behold  the  brave 
allies  of  Montrose,*  marching  to  the  aid  of  the  royal  cause, 
notwithstanding  all  the  perfidy  of  Charles  and  his  ministers, 
and  remembering  just  enough  of  past  sufferings  to  enhance 
the  generosity  of  their  present  sacrifice.  The  plaintive  melo- 
dies of  Carolan  take  us  hack  to  the  times  in  which  he  lived, 
when  our  poor  countrymen  were  driven  to  worship  their  God 
in  caves,  or  to  quit  forever  the  land  of  their  birth — like  the 
bird  that  abandons  the  nest  which  human  touch  has  violated ; 
and  in  many  a song  do  we  hear  the  last  farewell  of  the  exile, f 
mingling  sad  regret  for  the  ties  he  leaves  at  home,  with  san- 
guine  expectations  of  the  honors  that  await  him  abroad — 
such  honors  as  were  won  on  the  field  of  Fontenoy,  where  the 
valor  of  Irish  Catholics  turned  the  fortune  of  the  day,  and 


* There  are  some  gratifying  accounts  of  the  gallantry  of  these  Irish  auxili- 
aries in  “The  Complete  History  of  the  Wars  in  Scotland  under  Montrose” 
(1660).  See  particularly,  for  the  conduct  of  an  Irishman  at  the  battle  of  Aber- 
deen, chap.  vi.  p.  49 ; and  for  a tribute  to  the  bravery  of  Colonel  O'Kyan, 
chap.  vii.  p.  55.  Clarendon  owns  that  the  Marquis  of  Montrose  was  indebted 
for  much  of  his  miraculous  success  to  the  small  band  of  Irish  heroes  under 
Macdonnell. 

•}•  The  associations  of  the  Hindu  music,  though  more  obvious  and  defined, 
were  far  less  touching  and  characteristic.  They  divided  their  songs  according 
to  the  seasons  of  the  year,  by  which  (says  Sir  William  Jones)  “they  were  able 
to  recall  the  memory  of  autumnal  merriment,  at  the  close  of  the  harvest,  or  of 
separation  and  melancholy  during  the  cold  months,”  &c. — Asiatic  Transactions , 
vol.  iii.,  on  the  Musical  Modes  of  the  Hindus. — What  the  Abbe  du  Bos  says  of 
the  symphonies  of  Lully,  may  be  asserted,  with  much  more  probability,  of  our 
bold  and  impassioned  airs — “ elles  auroient  produit  de  ces  effets,  qui  nous 
paroissent  fabuleux  dans  le  rdcit  des  anciens,  si  on  les  avoit  fait  entendre  a des 
hommes  d’un  naturel  aussi  vif  que  les  Athtmiens.” — Reflex,  sur  la  Peinture , fyc., 
tom.  i.  sect.  45. 


LETTER  ON  MUSIC. 


215 


extorted  from  George  the  Second  that  memorable  exclamation, 
“Cursed  he  the  laws  which  deprive  me  of  such  subjects !” 
Though  much  has  been  said  of  the  antiquity  of  our  music, 
it  is  certain  that  our  finest  and  most  popular  airs  are  modern ; 
and  perhaps  we  may  look  no  further  than  the  last  disgraceful 
century  for  the  origin  of  most  of  those  wild  and  melancholy 
strains  which  were  at  once  the  offspring  and  solace  of  grief, 
and  were  applied  to  the  mind,  as  music  was  formerly  to  the 
body,  “ decantare  loca  dolentia.”  Mr.  Pinkerton  is  of  opinion* * * § 
that  none  of  the  Scotch  popular  airs  are  as  old  as  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century  ; and  though  musical  antiquaries  refer 
us,  for  some  of  our  melodies,  to  so  early  a period  as  the  fifth 
century,  I am  persuaded  that  there  are  few,  of  a civilized 
description  (and  by  this  I mean  to  exclude  all  the  savage 
Ceanans,  Cries, f &c.),  wThich  can  claim  quite  so  ancient  a date 
as  Mr.  Pinkerton  allows  to  the  Scotch.  But  music  is  not  the 
only  subject  upon  which  our  taste  for  antiquity  is  rather  un- 
reasonably indulged;  and,  however  heretical  it  may  be  to 
dissent  from  these  romantic  speculations,  I cannot  help  think- 
ing that  it  is  possible  to  love  our  country  very  zealously,  and 
to  feel  deeply  interested  in  her  honor  and  happiness,  without 
believing  that  Irish  was  the  language  spoken  in  Paradise ; J 
that  our  ancestors  were  kind  enough  to  take  the  trouble  of 
polishing  the  Greeks, § or  that  Abaris,  the  Hyperborean,  was  a 
native  of  the  North  of  Ireland. || 

By  some  of  these  archaeologists  it  has  been  imagined  that 


* Dissertation,  prefixed  to  the  2d  volume  of  his  Scottish  Ballads, 

f Of  which  some  genuine  specimens  may  be  found  at  the  end  of  Mr. 
Walker's  Work  upon  the  Irish  bards.  Mr.  Bunting  has  disfigured  his  last 
splendid  volume  by  too  many  of  these  barbarous  rhapsodies. 

J See  Advertisement  to  the  Transactions  of  the  Gaelic  Society  of  Dublin. 

§ 0 Halloran,  vol.  i.  part  iv.  chap.  vii. 

||  Id.  ib.  chap.  vi. 


216 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


the  Irish  were  early  acquainted  with  counter-point;*  and  they 
endeavor  to  support  this  conjecture  by  a well-known  passage 
in  Giraldus,  where  he  dilates,  with  such  elaborate  praise,  upon 
the  beauties  of  our  national  minstrelsy.  But  the  terms  of 
this  eulogy  are  too  vague,  too  deficient  in  technical  accuracy, 
to  prove  that  even  Giraldus  himself  knew  anything  of  the 
artifice  of  counter-point.  There  are  many  expressions  in  the 
Greek  and  Latin  writers  which  might  he  cited,  with  much 
more  plausibility,  to  prove  that  they  understood  the  arrange- 
ment of  music  in  parts  ;t  yet  I believe  it  is  conceded  in  general 
by  the  learned,  that,  however  grand  and  pathetic  the  melody 
of  the  ancients  may  have  been,  it  was  reserved  for  the  inge- 
nuity of  modern  science  to  transmit  the  “light  of  Song”  through 
the  variegating  prism  of  Harmony. 

Indeed,  the  irregular  scale  of  the  early  Irish  (in  which,  as 
in  the  music  of  Scotland,  the  interval  of  the  fourth  was  want- 


* It  is  also  supposed,  but  with  as  little  proof,  that  they  understood  the  diesis, 
or  enharmonic  interval. — The  Greeks  seem  to  have  formed  their  ears  to  this 
delicate  gradation  of  sound ; and,  whatever  difficulties  or  objections  may  lie  in  the 
way  of  its  practical  use,  we  must  agree  with  Mersenne  ( Preludes  de  l'  Harmonie, 
quest  7),  that  the  theory  of  Music  would  be  imperfect  without  it;  and  even 
in  practice  (as  Tosi,  among  others,  very  justly  remarks,  Observations  on  Florid 
Song , chap.  i.  sect.  16),  there  is  no  good  performer  on  the  violin  who  does  not 
make  a sensible  difference  between  D sharp  and  E flat,  though,  from  the  im- 
perfection of  the  instrument,  they  are  the  same  notes  upon  the  piano-forte. 
The  effect  of  modulation  by  enharmonic  transitions  is  also  very  striking  and 
beautiful. 

fThe  words  7niKtxnt  and  \ng)cqa>vi&,  in  a passage  of  Pluto,  and  some  expres- 
sions of  Cicero  in  Fragment,  lib.  ii.  de  Republ.,  induced  the  Abbe  Fraguier  to 
maintain  that  the  ancients  had  a knowledge  of  counter-point.  M.  Burette, 
however,  has  answered  him,  I think,  satisfactorily.  (Examen  d’un  Passage  de 
Platon,  in  the  3d  vol.  of  Histaire  de  I'Acad .)  M.  Huet  is  of  opinion  ( [Pensees 
Diverses ) that  what  Cicero  says  of  the  music  of  the  spheres,  in  his  Dream  of 
Scipio,  is  sufficient  to  prove  an  acquaintance  with  harmony;  but  one  of  the 
strongest  passages,  which  I recollect,  in  favor  of  the  supposition,  occurs  in  the 
Treatise  attributed  to  Aristotle — TItgi  Kso^sv, — Mcvnx.»  «T g c a/u.at  kxi  ySagu?, 


X.  T.  X. 


LETTER  ON  MUSIC. 


217 


ing*)  must  have  furnished  but  wild  and  refractory  subjects  to 
the  harmonist.  It  was  only  when  the  invention  of  Guido  began 
to  be  known,  and  the  powers  of  the  harpf  were  enlarged  by 
additional  strings,  that  our  melodies  took  the  sweet  character 
which  interests  us  at  present ; and  while  the  Scotch  persevered 
in  the  old  mutilation  of  the  scale,  J our  music  became  gradually 
more  amenable  to  the  laws  of  harmony  and  counter-point. 

* Another  lawless  peculiarity  of  our  music  is  the  frequency  of  what  com- 
posers call  consecutive  fifths;  but  this  is  an  irregularity  which  can  hardly  be 
avoided  by  persons  not  very  conversant  with  the  rules  of  composition;  indeed, 
if  I may  venture  to  cite  my  own  wild  attempts  in  this  way,  it  is  a fault  which 
I find  myself  continually  committing,  and  which  has  sometimes  appeared  so 
pleasing  to  my  ear,  that  I have  surrendered  it  to  the  critic  with  no  small  reluc- 
tance. May  there  be  not  a little  pedantry  in  adhering  too  rigidly  to  this  rule  ? 
I have  been  told  that  there  are  instances  in  Haydn  of  an  undisguised  succes- 
sions of  fifths;  and  Mr.  Shield,  in  his  Introduction  to  Harmony,  seems  to  inti- 
mate that  Handel  has  been  sometimes  guilty  of  the  same  irregularity. 

■f  A singular  oversight  occurs  in  an  Essay  upon  the  Irish  Harp,  by'  Mr. 
Beauford,  which  is  inserted  in  the  Appendix  to  Walker’s  Historical  Memoirs  : 
“ The  Irish  (says  he)  according  to  Bromton,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II.  had  two 
kinds  of  Harps,  1 Hibernici  tamen  in  duobus  musici  generis  instrumentis,  quam- 
vis  praecipitem  et  velocem,  suavem  tamen  et  jucundum  the  one  greatly  bold  and 
quick,  the  other  soft  and  pleasing.” — How  a man  of  Mr.  Beauford's  learning 
could  so  mistake  the  meaning,  and  mutilate  the  grammatical  construction  of 
this  extract,  is  unaccountable.  The  following  is  the  passage  as  I find  it  entire 
in  Bromton ; and  it  requires  but  little  Latin  to  perceive  the  injustice  which  has 
been  done  to  the  words  of  the  old  Chronicler : “ Et  cum  Scotia,  hujus  terrae 
filia,  utatur  lyrjL  tympano  et  choro,  ac  Wallia  cithara,  tubis  et  choro,  Hibernici 
tamen  in  duobus  musici  generis  instrumentis,  quamvis  proecipitem  et  velocem,  sua- 
vem tamen  et  jucundam , crispatis  modulis  et  intricatis  notulis,  efficiunt  harmo- 
niam .” — Hist.  Anglic.  Script.,  page  1075.  I should  not  have  thought  this  error 
worth  remarking,  but  that  the  compiler  of  the  Dissertation  on  the  Harp,  pre- 
fixed to  Mr.  Bunting's  last  work,  has  adopted  it  implicitly. 

JThe  Scotch  lay  claim  to  some  of  our  best  airs,  but  there  are  strong  traits 
of  difference  between  their  melodies  and  ours.  They  had  formerly  the  same 
passion  for  robbing  us  of  our  Saints,  and  the  learned  Dempster  was  for  this 
offence  called  “The  Saint-Stealer.”  It  was  an  Irishman,  I suppose,  who,  by 


28 


218 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


In  profiting,  however,  by  the  improvements  of  the  moderns, 
our  style  still  keeps  its  originality  sacred  from  their  refine- 
ments; and  though  Carolan  had  frequent  opportunities  of 
hearing  the  works  of  Germiniani  and  other  masters,  we  but 
rarely  find  him  sacrificing  his  native  simplicity  to  the  ambition 
of  their  ornaments,  or  affectation  of  their  science.  In  that 
curious  composition,  indeed,  called  his  Concerto,  it  is  evident 
that  he  labored  to  imitate  Corelli;  and  this  union  of  manners 
so  very  dissimilar,  produces  the  same  kind  of  uneasy  sensation 
which  is  felt  at  a mixture  of  different  styles  of  architecture. 
In  general,  however,  the  artless  flo^v  of  our  music  has  pre- 
served itself  free  from  all  tinge  of  foreign  innovation,*  and 
the  chief  corruptions  of  w'hich  wTe  have  to  complain  arise  from 
the  unskilful  performance  of  our  own  itinerant  musicians,  from 
whom,  too  frequently,  the  airs  are  noted  down,  encumbered  by 
their  tasteless  decorations,  and  responsible  for  all  their  ignorant 
anomalies.  Though  it  be  sometimes  impossible  to  trace  the 
original  strain,  yet,  in  most  of  them,  “auri  per  ramos  aura 
refulget,”f  the  pure  gold  of  the  melody  shines  through  the 
ungraceful  foliage  which  surrounds  it — and  the  most  delicate 
and  difficult  duty  of  a compiler  is  to  endeavor,  as  much  as 
possible,  by  retrenching  these  inelegant  superfluities,  and  col- 

way  of  reprisal,  stole  Dempster’s  beautiful  wife  from  him  at  Pisa. — See  this 
anecdote  in  the  Pinacotheca  of  Erythraeus,  part  i.  p.  25. 

* Among  other  false  refinements  of  the  art,  our  music  (with  the  exception 
perhaps  of  the  air  called  l;  Mamma,  Mamma,"  and  one  or  two  more  of  the 
same  ludicrous  description),  has  avoided  that  puerile  mimicry  of  natural  noises, 
motions,  &c.,  which  disgraces  so  often  the  works  of  even  Handel  himself. 
D Alembert  ought  to  have  had  better  taste  than  to  become  the  patron  of  this 
imitative  affectation.  See  Discours  Preliminaire  de  V Encyclopedic.  The  reader 
may  find  some  good  remarks  on  the  subject  in  Avison  upon  Musical  Expres- 
sion ; a work  which,  though  under  the  name  of  Avison,  was  written,  it  is  said, 
by  Dr.  Brown. 

t Virgil,  iEneid.  lib.  vi.  verse  204. 


LETTER  ON  MUSIC. 


219 


lating  the  various  methods  of  playing  or  singing  each  air,  to 
restore  the  regularity  of  its  form,  and  the  chaste  simplicity  of 
its  character. 

I must  again  observe,  that  in  doubting  the  antiquity  of  our 
music,  my  scepticism  extends  but  to  those  polished  specimens 
of  the  art,  which  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  anterior  to  the  dawn 
of  modern  improvement ; and  that  I would  by  no  means  inva- 
lidate the  claims  of  Ireland  to  as  early  a rank  in  the  annals  of 
minstrelsy,  as  the  most  zealous  antiquary  may  be  inclined  to 
allow  her.  In  addition,  indeed,  to  the  power  which  music 
must  always  have  possessed  over  the  minds  of  a people  so 
ardent  and  susceptible,  the  stimulus  of  persecution  was  not 
wanting  to  quicken  our  taste  into  enthusiasm ; the  charms  of 
song  were  ennobled  with  the  glories  of  martyrdom,  and  the 
acts  against  minstrels,  in  the  reigns  of  Henry  "V  III.  and  Eliza- 
beth, were  as  successful,  I doubt  not,  in  making  my  country- 
men musicians,  as  the  penal  laws  have  been  in  keeping  them 
Catholics. 

With  respect  to  the  verses  which  I have  written  for  these 
Melodies,  as  they  are  intended  rather  to  be  sung  than  read,  I 
can  answer  for  their  sound  with  somewhat  more  confidence 
than  for  their  sense.  Yet  it  would  be  affectation  to  deny  that 
I have  given  much  attention  to  the  task,  and  that  it  is  not 
through  want  of  zeal  or  industry,  if  I unfortunately  disgrace 
the  sweet  airs  of  my  country,  by  poetry  altogether  unworthy 
of  their  taste,  their  energy,  and  their  tenderness. 

Though  the  humble  nature  of  my  contributions  to  this  work 
may  exempt  them  from  the  rigors  of  literary  criticism,  it  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  those  touches  of  political  feeling,  those 
tones  of  national  complaint,  in  which  the  poetry  sometimes 
sympathizes  with  the  music,  would  be  suffered  to  pass  without 
censure  or  alarm.  It  has  been  accordingly  said,  that  the  ten- 


220 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


dencj  of  this  publication  is  mischievous,*  and  that  I have 
chosen  these  airs  but  as  a vehicle  of  dangerous  politics — as 
fair  and  precious  vessels  (to  borrow  an  image  of  St.  Augustin),  f 
from  which  the  wine  of  error  might  be  administered.  To  those 
who  identify  nationality  with  treason,  and  who  see,  in  every 
effort  for  Ireland,  a system  of  hostility  towards  England, — to 
those,  too,  who,  nursed  in  the  gloom  of  prejudice,  are  alarmed 
by  the  faintest  gleam  of  liberality  that  threatens  to  disturb 
their  darkness — like  that  Demophon  of  old,  who,  when  the 
sun  shone  upon  him,  shivered^ — to  such  men  I shall  not  deign 
to  offer  an  apology  for  the  warmth  of  any  political  sentiment 
which  may  occur  in  the  course  of  these  pages.  But  as  there 
are  many,  among  the  more  wise  and  tolerant,  who,  with  feeling 
enough  to  mourn  over  the  wrongs  of  their  country,  and  sense 
enough  to  perceive  all  the  danger  of  not  redressing  them,  may 
yet  think  that  allusions  in  the  least  degree  bold  or  inflamma- 
tory should  be  avoided  in  a publication  of  this  popular  descrip- 
tion— I beg  of  these  respected  persons  to  believe,  that  there 
is  no  one  who  deprecates  more  sincerely  than  I do  any  appeal 
to  the  passions  of  an  ignorant  and  angry  multitude ; but  that 
it  is  not  through  that  gross  and  inflammable  region  of  society 
a work  of  this  nature  could  ever  have  been  intended  to  circu- 
late. It  looks  much  higher  for  its  audience  and  readers : it 
is  found  upon  the  piano-fortes  of  the  rich  and  the  educated — 
of  those  who  can  afford  to  have  their  national  zeal  a little 
stimulated,  without  exciting  much  dread  of  the  excesses  into 
which  it  may  hurry  them ; and  of  many  whose  nerves  may  be, 


* See  Letters,  under  the  signatures  of  Timaeus,  &c.,  in  the  Morning  Post , 
Pilot,  and  other  papers. 

I “ Non  accuso  verba,  quasi  vasa  electa  atque  pretiosa;  sed  vinum  erroris 
quod  cum  eis  nobis  propinatur.1' — Lib.  i.  Confess,  chap.  16. 

J This  emblem  of  modern  bigots  was  head-butler  (rpx.7rt*a7roi6s)  to  Alexander 
the  Great.  Sext.  Empir.  Pyrrh.  Hypoth.  lib.  i. 


LETTER  ON  MUSIC. 


221 


now  and  then,  alarmed  with  advantage,  as  much  more  is  to  be 
gained  by  their  fears,  than  could  ever  be  expected  from  their 
justice. 

Having  thus  adverted  to  the  principal  objection  which  has 
been  hitherto  made  to  the  poetical  part  of  this  work,  allow  me 
to  add  a few  words  in  defence  of  my  ingenious  coadjutor,  Sir 
John  Stevenson,  who  has  been  accused  of  having  spoiled  the 
simplicity  of  the  airs  by  the  chromatic  richness  of  his  sym- 
phonies, and  the  elaborate  variety  of  his  harmonies.  We  might 
cite  the  example  of  the  admirable  Haydn,  who  has  sported 
through  all  the  mazes  of  musical  science,  in  his  arrangement 
of  the  simplest  Scottish  Melodies ; but  it  appears  to  me,  that 
Sir  John  Stevenson  has  brought  a national  feeling  to  this  task, 
which  it  would  be  in  vain  to  expect  from  a foreigner,  however 
tasteful  or  judicious.  Through  many  of  his  own  compositions 
we  trace  a vein  of  Irish  sentiment,  which  points  him  out  as 
peculiarly  suited  to  catch  the  spirit  of  his  country’s  music  ; 
and,  far  from  agreeing  with  those  fastidious  critics  who  think 
that  his  symphonies  have  nothing  kindred  with  the  airs  which 
they  introduce,  I would  say  that,  in  general,  they  resemble 
those  illuminated  initials  of  old  manuscripts,  which  are  of  the 
same  character  with  the  writing  which  follows,  though  more 

<3  7 0 

highly  colored  and  more  curiously  ornamented. 

In  those  airs,  which  are  arranged  for  voices,  his  skill  has 
particularly  distinguished  itself;  and,  though  it  cannot  be  de- 
nied that  a single  melody  most  naturally  expresses  the  lan- 
guage of  feeling  and  passion,  yet  often,  when  a favorite 
strain  has  been  dismissed,  as  having  lost  its  charm  of  novelty 
for  the  ear,  it  returns,  in  a harmonized  shape,  with  new  claims 
upon  our  interest  and  attention ; and  to  those  who  study  the 
delicate  artifices  of  composition,  the  construction  of  the  inner 
parts  of  these  pieces  must  afford,  I think,  considerable  satis- 


faction.  Every  voice  lias  an  air  to  itself,  a flowing  succession 
of  notes,  which  might  be  heard  writh  pleasure,  independently 
of  the  rest — so  artfully  has  the  harmonist  (if  I may  thus  ex- 
press it)  gavelled  the  melody,  distributing  an  equal  portion  of 
its  sweetness  to  every  part. 

If  your  Ladyship’s  love  of  Music  were  not  known  to  me,  I 
should  not  have  hazarded  so  long  a letter  upon  the  subject ; 
but  as,  probably,  I may  have  presumed  too  far  upon  your 
partiality,  the  best  revenge  you  can  take  is  to  write  me  just 
as  long  a letter  upon  Painting;  and  I promise  to  attend  to 
your  theory  of  the  art,  with  a pleasure  only  surpassed  by  that 
which  I have  so  often  derived  from  your  practice  of  it. — May 
the  mind  which  such  talents  adorn  continue  calm  as  it  is 
bright,  and  happy  as  it  is  virtuous  ! 

Believe  me,  your  Ladyship’s 

Grateful  Friend  and  Servant, 

Thomas  Moore. 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


223 


ADVERTISEMENT 

TO  THE  FOURTH  NUMBER. 


This  Number  of  the  Melodies  ought  to  have  appeared  much 
earlier;  and  the  writer  of  the  words  is  ashamed  to  confess, 
that  the  delay  of  its  publication  must  be  imputed  chiefly,  if 
not  entirely,  to  him.  He  finds  it  necessary  to  make  this 
avowal,  not  only  for  the  purpose  of  removing  all  blame  from 
the  publisher,  but  in  consequence  of  a rumor,  which  has  been 
circulated  industriously  in  Dublin,  that  the  Irish  Government 
had  interfered  to  prevent  the  continuance  of  the  Work. 

This  would  be,  indeed,  a revival  of  Henry  the  Eighth’s 
enactments  against  Minstrels,  and  it  is  flattering  to  find  that 
so  much  importance  is  attached  to  our  compilation,  even  by 
such  persons  as  the  inventors  of  the  report.  Bishop  Lowth, 
it  is  true,  was  of  opinion  that  one  song,  like  the  Hymn  to 
Harmodius , would  have  done  more  towards  rousing  the  spirit 
of  the  Romans,  than  all  the  Philippics  of  Cicero.  But  we 
live  in  wiser  and  less  musical  times;  ballads  have  long  lost 
their  revolutionary  powers,  and  we  question  if  even  a “ Lilli- 
bullero”  would  produce  any  very  serious  consequences  at  pre- 
sent. It  is  needless,  therefore,  to  add,  that  there  is  no  truth 


224 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


in  the  report ; and  we  trust  that  whatever  belief  it  obtained 
was  founded  rather  upon  the  character  of  the  Government 
than  of  the  W orlc. 

The  airs  of  the  last  Number,  though  full  of  originality  and 
beauty,  were,  perhaps,  in  general,  too  curiously  selected  to 
become  all  at  once  as  popular  as,  we  think,  they  deserve  to 
be.  The  public  are  remarkably  reserved  towards  new  ac- 
quaintances in  music,  which,  perhaps,  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why  many  modern  composers  introduce  none  but  old  friends 
to  their  notice.  Indeed,  it  is  natural  that  persons  who  love 
music  only  by  association,  should  be  slow*  in  feeling  the  charms 
of  a new*  and  strange  melody;  w*hile  those,  who  have  a quick 
sensibility  for  this  enchanting  art,  will  as  naturally  seek  and 
enjoy  novelty,  because  in  every  variety  of  strain  they  find  a 
fresh  combination  of  ideas;  and  the  sound  has  scarcely  reached 
the  ear,  before  the  heart  has  rapidly  translated  it  into  senti- 
ment. After  all,  however,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  most 
popular  of  our  national  airs  are  also  the  most  beautiful ; and 
it  has  been  our  wish  in  the  present  Number,  to  select  from 
those  melodies  only  which  have  long  been  listened  to  and  ad- 
mired. The  least  known  in  the  collection  is  the  air  of  “ Love’s 
Young  Dream  but  it  is  one  of  those  easy,  artless  strangers, 
whose  merit  the  heart  acknowdedges  instantly. 

T.  M. 

Bury  Street,  St.  James’s,  Nov.  1811. 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


225 


ADVERTISEMENT 
TO  THE  FIFTH  NUMBER. 


It  is  but  fair  to  those  -who  take  an  interest  in  this  work,  to 
state  that  it  is  now  very  near  its  termination,  and  that  the 
Sixth  Number,  which  shall  speedily  appear,  will,  most  proba- 
bly, be  the  last  of  the  series.  Three  volumes  will  then  have 
been  completed,  according  to  the  original  plan,  and  the  Pro- 
prietors desire  me  to  say  that  a list  of  Subscribers  will  be  pub- 
lished with  the  concluding  number. 

It  is  not  so  much  from  a want  of  materials,  and  still  less 
from  any  abatement  of  zeal  or  industry,  that  we  have  adopted 
the  resolution  of  bringing  our  task  to  a close ; but  we  feel  so 
proud,  for  our  country’s  sake  and  our  own,  of  the  interest 
which  this  purely  Irish  Work  has  excited,  and  so  anxious  lest 
a particle  of  that  interest  should  be  lost  by  any  ill-judged  pro- 
traction of  its  existence,  that  we  think  it  wiser  to  take  away 
the  cup  from  the  lip,  while  its  flavor  is  yet,  we  trust,  fresh 
aud  sweet,  than  to  risk  any  longer  trial  of  the  charm,  or  give 
so  much  as  not  to  leave  some  wish  for  more.  In  speaking 
thus,  I allude  entirely  to  the  airs,  which  are,  of  course,  the 
main  attraction  of  these  volumes ; and  though  we  have  still 

29 


226 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


many  popular  and  delightful  Melodies  to  produce,*  yet  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  we  should  soon  experience  some  difficulty 
in  equalling  the  richness  and  novelty  of  the  earlier  numbers, 
for  which,  as  we  had  the  choice  of  all  before  us,  we  naturally 
selected  only  the  most  rare  and  beautiful.  The  poetry,  too, 
would  be  sure  to  sympathize  with  the  decline  of  the  music  ; 
and,  however  feebly  my  words  have  kept  pace  with  the  excel- 
lence of  the  airs,  they  would  follow  their  falling  off , I fear, 
with  wonderful  alacrity.  So  that,  altogether,  both  pride  and 
prudence  counsel  us  to  stop,  while  the  work  is  yet,  we  believe, 
flourishing  and  attractive,  and  in  the  imperial  attitude  “ stantes 
mori before  we  incur  the  charge  either  of  altering  for  the 
worse,  or  what  is  equally  unpardonable,  continuing  too  long 
the  same. 

We  beg,  however,  to  say,  it  is  only  in  the  event  of  our  fail- 
ing to  find  airs  as  exquisite  as  most  of  those  we  have  given, 
that  we  mean  thus  to  anticipate  the  natural  period  of  disso- 
lution— like  those  Indians  who  put  their  relatives  to  death 
when  they  become  feeble — and  they  who  wish  to  retard  this 
euthanasia  of  the  Irish  Melodies,  cannot  better  effect  it  than 
by  contributing  to  our  collection,  not  what  are  called  curious 
airs,  for  we  have  abundance  of  them,  and  they  are,  in  general, 
only  curious,  but  any  real  sweet  and  expressive  songs  of  our 
country,  which  either  chance  or  research  may  have  brought 
into  their  hands. 

T.  M. 

Mayfield  Cottage,  Ashbourne, 

December,  1813. 

* Among  these  is  Savourna  Deelish,  which  I have  hitherto  only  withheld 
from  the  diffidence  I feel  in  treading  upon  the  same  ground  with  Mr.  Camp- 
bell, whose  beautiful  words  to  this  fine  Air  have  taken  too  strong  possession 
of  all  ears  and  hearts,  for  me  to  think  of  producing  any  impression  after  him. 
I suppose,  however,  I must  attempt  it  for  the  next  Number. 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


227 


ADVERTISEMENT 

TO  THE  SIXTH  NUMBER. 


In  presenting  this  Sixth  Number  to  the  public  as  our  last, 
and  bidding  adieu  to  the  Irish  Harp  for  ever,  we  shall  not 
answer  very  confidently  for  the  strength  of  our  resolution,  nor 
feel  quite  sure  that  it  may  not  prove,  after  all,  to  be  only  one 
of  those  eternal  farewells  which  a lover  takes  of  his  mistress 
occasionally.  Our  only  motive,  indeed,  for  discontinuing  the 
work  was  a fear  that  our  treasures  were  nearly  exhausted, 
and  an  unwillingness  to  descend  to  the  gathering  of  mere  seed- 
pearl,  after  the  very  valuable  gems  it  has  been  our  lot  to 
string  together.  The  announcement,  however,  of  this  inten- 
tion, in  our  Fifth  Number,  has  excited  a degree  of  anxiety  in 
the  lovers  of  Irish  Music,  not  only  pleasant  and  flattering, 
but  highly  useful  to  us  ; for  the  various  contributions  we  have 
received  in  consequence  have  enriched  our  collection  with  so 
many  choice  and  beautiful  airs,  that  if  we  keep  to  our  resolu- 
tion of  publishing  no  more,  it  will  certainly  be  an  instance  of 
forbearance  and  self-command  unexampled  in  the  history  of 
poets  and  musicians.  To  one  gentleman,  in  particular,  who 
has  been  many  years  resident  in  England,  but  who  has  not 
forgot,  among  his  various  pursuits,  either  the  language  or  the 


228 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


melodies  of  his  native  country,  we  beg  to  offer  our  best  thanks 
for  the  many  interesting  communications  with  which  he  has 
favored  us  ; and  we  trust  that  he  and  our  other  friends  will 
not  relax  in  those  efforts  by  which  we  have  been  so  considera- 
bly assisted ; for,  though  the  work  must  now  be  considered  as 
defunct,  yet — as  Reaumur,  the  naturalist,  found  out  the  art 
of  making  the  cicada  sing  after  it  was  dead — it  is  not  impos- 
sible that,  some  time  or  other,  we  may  try  a similar  experiment 
upon  the  Irish  Melodies. 

T.M. 


Mayfield,  Ashbourne, 
March,  1815. 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


229 


ADVERTISEMENT 
TO  THE  SEVENTH  NUMBER. 


If  I had  consulted  only  my  own  judgment,  this  work  would 
not  have  extended  beyond  the  six  numbers  already  published ; 
which  contain,  perhaps,  the  flower  of  our  national  melodies, 
and  have  attained  a rank  in  public  favor,  of  which  I would 
not  willingly  risk  the  forfeiture,  by  degenerating,  in  any  way, 
from  those  merits  that  were  its  source.  Whatever  treasures 
of  our  music  were  still  in  reserve  (and  it  will  be  seen,  I trust, 
that  they  are  numerous  and  valuable),  I would  gladly  have 
left  to  future  poets  to  glean,  and  with  the  ritual  words  “ tibi 
trado ,”  would  have  delivered  up  the  torch  into  other  hands, 
before  it  had  lost  much  of  its  light  in  my  own.  But  the  call 
for  a continuance  of  the  work  has  been,  as  I understand  from 
the  Publisher,  so  general,  and  we  have  received  so  many  con- 
tinuations of  old  and  beautiful  airs,*  the  suppression  of  which, 


* One  gentleman,  in  particular,  whose  name  I shall  feel  happy  in  being 
allowed  to  mention;  has  not  only  sent  us  nearly  forty  ancient  airs,  but  has  com- 
municated many  curious  fragments  of  Irish  poetry,  and  some  interesting  tradi- 
tions current  in  the  county  where  he  resides,  illustrated  by  sketches  of  the 
romantic  scenery  to  which  they  refer ; all  of  which,  though  too  late  for  the  pre- 
sent Number,  will  be  of  infinite  service  to  us  in  the  prosecution  of  our  task. 


230 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


for  the  enhancement  of  those  we  have  published,  would  re- 
semble too  much  the  policy  of  the  Dutch  in  burning  their 
spices,  that  I have  been  persuaded,  though  not  without  con- 
siderable diffidence  in  my  success,  to  commence  a new  series 
of  the  Irish  Melodies. 

T.  M. 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


231 


DEDICATION 

TO  THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  HEADFORT. 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  TENTH  NUMBER. 


It  is  'with  a pleasure,  not  unmixed  with  melancholy,  that  I 
dedicate  the  last  Number  of  the  Irish  Melodies  to  your  Lady- 
ship ; nor  can  I have  any  doubt  that  the  feelings  with  which 
you  receive  the  tribute  will  be  of  the  same  mingled  and  sad- 
dened tone.  To  you,  who  though  but  little  beyond  the  season 
of  childhood,  when  the  earlier  numbers  of  this  work  appeared, 
lent  the  aid  of  your  beautiful  voice,  and,  even  then,  exquisite 
feeling  for  music,  to  the  happy  circle  who  met,  to  sing  them 
together,  under  your  father’s  roof,  the  gratification,  whatever 
it  may  be,  which  this  humble  offering  brings,  cannot  be  other- 
wise than  darkened  by  the  mournful  reflection,  how  many  of 
the  voices  which  then  joined  with  ours  are  now  silent  in 
death  ! 

I am  not  without  hope  that  as  far  as  regards  the  grace  and 
spirit  of  the  Melodies,  you  will  find  this  closing  portion  of  the 
work  not  unworthy  of  what  has  preceded  it.  The  Sixteen 
Airs,  of  which  the  Number  and  the  Supplement  consist,  have 
been  selected  from  the  immense  mass  of  Irish  music  which 
has  been  for  years  past  accumulating  in  my  hands ; and  it  was 


232 


PREFATORY  NOTICES. 


from  a desire  to  include  all  that  appeared  most  worthy  of 
preservation,  that  the  four  supplementary  songs  which  follow 
this  Tenth  Number  have  been  added. 

Trusting  that  I may  yet  again,  in  remembrance  of  old  times, 
hear  our  voices  together  in  some  of  the  harmonized  airs  of  this 
Volume,  I have  the  honor  to  subscribe  myself, 

Your  Ladyship’s  faithful  Friend  and  Servant, 

Thomas  Moore. 

Sloperton  Cottage,  May,  1834, 


INDEX. 


Alone  in  crowds  to  wander  on,  . 

And  doth  not  a meeting  like  this  make  amends, 

As  a beam  o’er  the  face  of  the  waters  may  glow, 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track, 

As  vanquished  Erin  wept  beside, 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  . 
Avenging  and  bright  fall  the  swift  sword  of  Erin, 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms,  . 

By  that  Lake,  whose  gloomy  shore, 

By  the  Feal's  wave  benighted, 

By  the  hope  within  us  springing, 

Come  o’er  the  sea,  . . . . ■ 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 

Come,  send  round  the  wine,  and  leave  points  of  belief,  . 

Dear  Harp  of  my  country ! in  darkness  I found  thee, . 
Down  in  the  valley  come  meet  me  to-night, 

Drink  of  this  cup — you’ll  find  there’s  a spell  in, 

Drink  to  her  who  long,  . . 

Erin ! the  tear  and  the  smile  in  thine  eyes, 

30 


PAGE 

187 

168 

28 

127 

172 

89 

81 

48 

74 

42 

58 

105 

117 

45 

123 

148 

146 

50 


21 


234 


INDEX. 


Fairest ! put  on  awhile,  ..... 

PAGE 

165 

Farewell! — but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour, 

98 

Fill  the  bumper  fair,  ..... 

121 

Fly  not  yet ; his  just  the  hour,  . . . . . 

24 

Forget  not  the  field  where  they  perished, 

138 

From  this  hour  the  pledge  is  given,  .... 

. 203 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee,  ..... 

17 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded,  .... 

. 107 

Here  we  dwell,  in  holiest  bowers,  .... 

84 

How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  daylight  dies,  . 

31 

How  oft  has  the  Benshee  cried,  .... 

35 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes,  .... 

. 153 

I'd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me,  .... 

103 

If  thou’lt  be  mine,  the  treasures  of  air,  .... 

135 

In  the  morning  of  life,  when  its  cares  are  unknown, 

129 

In  yonder  valley  there  dwelt,  alone,  .... 

. 170 

I saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 

120 

I saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime,  .... 

74 

It  is  not  the  tear  at  this  moment  shed, 

65 

I've  a secret  to  tell  thee,  but  hush ! not  here, 

. 189 

I wish  I was  by  that  dim  lake,  .... 

175 

Lay  his  sword  by  his  side,  ..... 

. 197 

Lesbia  hath  a beaming  eye,  ..... 

72 

Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old,  .... 

40 

Like  the  bright  lamp  that  shone  in  Kildare's  holy  fane, 

49 

My  gentle  harp,  once  more  I waken,  . . . . 

. 125 

INDEX.  235 

PAGE 

79 
143 
60 
109 


Nay,  tell  me  not,  dear,  that  the  goblet  drowns, 
Ne’er  ask  the  hour — what  is  it  to  us, 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror’s  way, 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers, 


Of  all  the  fair  months  that  round  the  sun, 

Oh  ! Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore, 

Oh ! banquet  not  in  those  shining  bowers, 

Oh ! blame  not  the  bard,  if  he  fly  to  the  bowers, 

Oh ! breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Oh ! could  we  do  with  this  world  of  ours, 

Oh ! doubt  me  not,  .... 

Oh ! for  the  swords  of  former  time, 

Oh ! had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 

Oh ! haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle, 

Oh ! the  days  are  gone,  when  beauty  bright, . 

Oh,  the  sight  entrancing,  .... 
Oh ! think  not  my  spirits  are  always  as  light, 

Oh  ! weep  for  the  hour,  .... 
Oh ! where’s  the  slave  so  lowly, 

Oh,  ye  dead ! oh,  ye  dead!  whom  we  know, 

One  bumper  at  parting ! — though  many, 


151 

195 

154 

52 

20 

199 

100 

141 

97 

30 

67 

159 

25 

39 

116 

150 

91 


Quick ! we  have  but  a second, 


167 


Remember  the  glories  of  Brian  the  brave, 

Remember  thee  ? yes,  while  there’s  life  in  this  heart, 
Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 


19 

131 

27 


Sail  on,  sail  on,  thou  fearless  bark, 

Shall  the  harp  then  be  silent,  when  he  who  first  gave, 
She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps,  . 
She  sung  of  love,  while  o’er  her  lyre, 


143 

157 

78 

177 


286 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Silent,  oh  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy  water,  ....  22 

Silence  is  in  our  festal  halls,  ......  205 

Sing — sing — music  was  given,  . . . . . 179 

Sing,  sweet  harp,  oh  sing  to  me, . . . . . .181 

Song  of  the  battle  eve,  . . . . . . 183 

Strike  the  gay  harp!  see,  the  moon  is  on  high,  . . . .192 

Sublime  was  the  warning  that  Liberty  spoke,  ...  46 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well,  . . . . .161 


Take  back  the  virgin  page,  .... 
The  dawning  of  morn,  the  daylight’s  sinking, 

The  dream  of  those  days,  .... 
The  harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  halls, 

The  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

The  time  I’ve  lost  in  wooing, 

The  valley  lay  smiling  before  me,  . 

The  wandering  bard  .... 

The  wine-cup  is  circling  in  Almhin’s  hall,  . 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love, . 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a valley  so  sweet,  . 
There  are  sounds  of  mirth, 

They  came  from  a land  beyond  the  sea, 

They  know  not  my  heart,  who  believe  there  can  be, 
They  may  rail  at  this  life — from  the  hour  I began  it, 
This  life  is  all  chequered  with  pleasures  and  woes, 
Though  dark  are  our  sorrows,  to-day  we'll  forget  them, 
Though  humble  the  banquet, 

Though  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I see, 
Through  Erin’s  Isle,  .... 
Through  grief  and  through  danger,  . 

’Tis  believed  that  this  harp, 

’Tis  gone,  and  for  ever,  the  light  we  saw  breaking,  . 


32 

155 

202 

23 

94 
115 

95 
185 
200 

93 

29 

193 

190 

174 

139 

85 

69 

180 

26 

87 

63 

66 

118 


INDEX. 


9 a 


o < 


PAGE 

5Tis  sweet  to  think,  that  where’er  we  rove,  . . . 61 

:Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer,  . .....  92 

To  ladies’  eyes  around,  boy,  . . . . . 136 

To-morrow,  comrade,  we,  . . . . . .183 

T was  one  of  those  dreams  that  by  music  are  brought,  . . 163 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past,  . . . . .71 

We  may  roam  through  this  world,  like  a child  at  a feast,  . . 37 

What  life  like  that  of  the  bard  can  be,  . . . . .185 

What  the  bee  is  to  the  floweret,  .....  S3 

When  cold  in  the  earth  lies  the  friend  thou  hast  loved,  . . 131 

When  daylight  was  yet  sleeping  under  the  billow,  ...  56 

Whene’er  I see  those  smiling  eyes,  . . . . .134 

When  first  I met  thee,  warm  and  young,  . . . . Ill 

When  he  who  adores  thee,  has  left  but  the  name,  . . .22 

When  in  death  I shall  calm  recline.  .....  34 

When  through  life,  unblest  we  rove,  . . . . .64 

While  gazing  on  the  moon’s  light,  .....  54 

While  History's  muse  the  memorial  was  keeping,  . . .113 

Wreath  the  bowl,  . . . . . . . 132 

Yes,  sad  one  of  Sion — if  closely  resembling,  . . . .141 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet’s  pride,  . ...  101 

/ 


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PROVERBS,  ILLUSTRATED  BY  PARALLEL  OR  RELATIVE  PASSAGES  FROM 
THE  POETS. 

To  which  are  added  Proverbs  from  the  Latin,  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian , with 
translations  and  a copious  Index  of  Subjects. 

BY  JAMES  ORTON,  ESQ. 

lilnjantln  Illustrated,  tnitf)  Illuminations  anti  Encjra&incjs. 

Bound  in  Morocco  Antique,  Turkey  Morocco,  or  muslin,  gilt  sides  and  edges. 

1 vol.  8yo. 


XIX. 

Cabinet  at  Mabirn  Slrt; 

A COLLECTION  OF  TWENTY-FIVE  SUBJECTS  FROM  MODERN  MASTERS, 
Engraved  in  the  highest  style  of  mezzotint. 

Illustrated  tin  appropriate  Articles  in  $3rose  and  Ferse. 

NEW  EDITION. 

Bound  in  Morocco  Antique,  Turkey  Morocco,  or  muslin,  gilt  and  gilt  edges. 
1 vol.  8vo. 


XX. 

Cabinet  at  3ilabern  Slrt. 

(NEW  series.) 

COLLECTION  OF  TWENTY-FIVE  SUBJECTS  FROM  MODERN  MASTERS, 
ENGRAVED  IN  THE  HIGHEST  STYLE  OF  MEZZOTINT, 

Illustrated  tin  appropriate  'articles  in  uprose  and  Ferse. 

This  second  series,  or  volume,  of  the  Cabinet  is  entirely  different  in  Illustrations 
and  letter-press  from  the  first  series,  or  volume. 

Bound  in  Morocco  Antique,  Turkey  Morocco,  or  muslin,  gilt  and  gilt  edges. 

1 vol.  8yo. 


XXI. 


Cttj.ij.ifns.  rproucrlmtl  ^[jilosojilnj. 

(duodecimo.) 

PROVERBIAL  PHILOSOPHY;  A BOOK  OF  THOUGHTS  AND  ARGUMENTS 
ORIGINALLY  TREATED. 

BY  MARTIN  FARQUIIAR  TUPPER,  D.C.L.,F.R.S. 

Revised  and  authorized  edition,  splendidly  Illustrated  with  twelve  Engravings. 
To  which  is  added,  An  Essay  on  the  Philosophy  of  Proverbs. 

By  James  Orton,  Esq. 

Elegantly  hound  in  Turkey  Morocco,  or  muslin,  gilt  and  gilt  edges. 

1 vol.  12mo. 


XXII. 

Cttji jiffs  l^jilDsojtljtf  ^roufrhitilf. 

PHILOSOFHIE  PROVE  RBIALE. 

PAR  MARTIN  F.  TUPPER, 

Docteur  en  Droit  et  Mcmbre  de  la  Societe  Roy  ale. 

Traduite  en  Franqais  d'apres  la  Dixieme  Edition,  par  George  Metivier. 
Revue  et  corrigee  par  F.  A.  Bregy,  Professeur  de  Frangals 
k la  Haute  Ecole  Centrale  de  Philadelphia. 

Elegantly  Hlustrated,  and  bound  in  Turkey  Morocco  and  Arabesque. 
, 1 vol.  12mo.  . - - 


XXIII. 

Cttjtjtrrs  ^Ofttcal  iUsrks  unit  Jiff. 

TUPPER'S  POETICAL  WORKS  AND  LIFE. 

(authorized  edition.) 

Ballads  for  the  Times,  A Thousand  Lines,  Hactenus,  Geraldine,  and  other  Poems. 

BY  MARTIN  FARQUIIAR  TUPPER,  D.C.L.,F.R.S. 

To  which  is  added  a Biographical  Sketch  of  the  Author,  by  William 
Anderson,  Esq.,  author  of  “ Landscape  Lyrics.” 

Illustrated  with  elegant  Engravings. 

Splendidly  hound  in  Turkey  Morocco,  or  muslin,  gilt  and  gilt  edges. 

1 vol.  small  12mo. 


XXI Y. 


leaflets  of  3fiemonj. 

AN  ILLUMINATED  ANNUAL  FOR  1855. 

Illustrated  with  Illuminations  by  Devereux  in  the  first  style  of  Chromr -Litho- 
graphy, and  ten  elegant  Engravings  from  the  first  masters. 

Splendidly  bound  in  Turkey  Morocco,  or  muslin,  gilt  and  gilt  edges. 

1 yoI.  Royal  Syo. 


XX  Y. 

C[ie  Cabinet  Slnnnal. 

A CHRISTMAS,  NEW  YEAR,  AND  BIRTH-DAY-  GIFT  FOR  1855. 

Elegantly  Illustrated  with  twenty-four  Engravings,  and  bound  in  Turkey 
Morocco,  or  muslin,  gilt  and  gilt  edges.  1 vol.  small  Syo. 


XX  Y I. 

/rirnitejjt-pra  (Offering. 

A CHRISTMAS,  NEW  YEAR,  AND  BIRTH-DAY  GIFT  FOR  1855. 
Iilegantln  Illustrated  foitf)  ricjfjt  splendid  Entjrafttngs  bn  Sartam. 
Bound  in  Arabesque  Morocco,  gilt  and  gilt  edges.  1 vol.  12mo. 


X X Y 1 1. 

Cl ie  Inara  /lake. 

A CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW  YEAR'S  PRESENT  FOR  1855. 
lilegantls  Illustrated  initf)  eigf)t  splendid  fsncjrabinijs  bn  Sartain. 
Bound  in  Arabesque  Morocco,  gilt  and  gilt  edges.  1 vol.  12mo. 


XXVIII. 


Affection’s  (Sift 

A CHRISTMAS,  NEW  YEAR,  AND  BIRTH-DAY  GIFT  FOR  1855. 

Elegantly  Illustrated  with  eight  splendid  Engravings,  and  bound  in  Arabesque 
Morocco,  gilt  and  gilt  edges. 


XXIX. 

C[je  (Srm  Annual. 

A CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT  FOR  1855. 

HEItcjanilji  Hlustratcir  fottf)  ttjfljt  spltnirtir  BEnjjabiitjjs  ^attain. 

Bound  in  Arabesque  Morocco,  gilt  and  gilt  edges. 


ELEGANT  FAMILY  BIBLES— BUTLER'S  EDITION. 

XXX. 

Sutlers  Jloijal  (Quarto  3oihIe. 

A SPLENDID  EDITION  OF  THE  HOLY  BIBLE,  IN  LARGE  QUARTO,  SUITED 
TO  BE  USED  IN  CHURCHES  AND  FAMILIES. 

This  Bible  is  in  larger  sized  type  than  any  other  printed  in  the  United  States. 

It  contains  the  Apocrypha,  and  a Family  Record.  All  of  the  following  named 
styles,  A to  G,  are  printed  on  the  same  quality  of  paper,  and  are  bound  in  the 
best  manner.  They  differ  only  in  the  Illustrations  and  in  style  of  binding. 

STYLES  AND  RETAIL  PRICES. 

A.  Illustrated  with  10  coloured  Engravings,  and  8 new  and  splendid 

Illuminations.  Turkey,  super  extra,  bevelled  hoards,  . . . $16.50 

B.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  8 new  and  splendid  Illumina- 

tions. Turkey,  super  extra,  bevelled  hoards, 14.50 

C.  Illustrated  with  10  coloured  Engravings,  and  8 new  and  splendid  Illu- 

minations. Turkey,  super  extra,  14.50 

D.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  S new  and  splendid  Illuminations. 

Turkey,  super  extra, 13.00 

E.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  4 Illuminations.  Turkey 

morocco,  super  extra,  12.00 


Elegant  Family  Bibles— Continued. 

E 2.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  2 new  Illuminations.  Turkey 


morocco,  gilt  edges, 10.00 

F.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  2 Illuminations.  Imitation 

Turkey,  8.00 

G.  Illustrated  with  2 Illumiuations,  and  2 Engravings.  Fine  sheep, 

marble  edges,  gilt  hack,  stamped,  and  gilt  sides,  ....  5.50 

ANTIQUE.  Illustrated  with  10  Coloured  Engravings,  and  8 new  and 
splendid  Illuminations.  Turkey,  super  extra,  bevelled  boards, 
panelled  sides, 24.00 


With  Psalms,  additional  $0.25.  With  clasps,  additional  $2.00. 


XXXI. 

Sutler’s  (Hrai)  |mnll  dkartn  fMt 

AN  ENTIRELY  NEW  EDITION,  STEREOTYPED  FROM  THE  BIBLE  SOCIETY 
STANDARD,  IN  SMALL  QUARTO. 

This  edition,  but  seven  by  nine  and  a half  inches  in  size,  is  printed  upon  pica 
type  (the  largest  type  used  in  any  Quarto  or  Family  Bible  printed  in  the  United 
States,  excepting  only  Butler’s  Royal  Quarto  Bible),  and  contains  marginal  notes 
and  references,  the  various  readings,  the  Apocrypha,  and  a Family  Record.  The 
Illustrations  are  all  from  original  designs  by  Schuessele,  and  are  engraved  in  line 
in  the  first  style  of  the  art.  The  Illuminations  are  also  from  original  designs  by 
Devereux.  The  end  aimed  at  in  publishing  this  edition  was  to  produce  a Bible  in 
large  type  in  a small  and  convenient  shape  for  reading.  This  has  been  accom- 
plished, and  it  is  believed  to  be  the  most  elegant  and  convenient  edition  in  the 
English  language. 

The  following  are  the  styles  and  retail  prices.  They  are  all  printed  on  the  same 
quality  of  paper,  and  differ  only  in  Illustrations  and  in  the  style  of  binding. 

IL  Illustrated  with  10  Coloured  Engravings,  and  8 new  and  splendid 

Illuminations.  Turkey,  super  extra,  bevelled  boards,  . . . $11.00 

I.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  8 new  and  splendid  Illuminations. 

Turkey,  super  extra,  bevelled  boards,  10.00 

K.  Illustrated  with  10  Coloured  Engravings,  and  8 new  and  splendid 

Illuminations.  Turkey,  super  extra,  10.00 

L.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  8 new  and  splendid  Illuminations. 

Turkey,  super  extra, 9.00 

M.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  4 Illuminations.  Turkey  morocco, 

super  extra, 8.50 

N.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  2 new  Illuminations.  Turkey 

morocco,  gilt  edges, 6.75 


[Continued  Over. 


Elegant  Family  Bibles— Continued. 

O.  Illustrated  with  10  Engravings,  and  2 Illuminations.  Imitation 

Turkey, 6.00 

P.  Illustrated  with  2 Illuminations,  and  2 Engravings.  Fine  sheep, 

marble  edges,  gilt  back,  stamped  and  gilt  sides,  ....  4.50 

ANTIQUE.  Illustrated  with  10  Coloured  Engravings,  and  8 new  and 
splendid  Illuminations.  Turkey,  super  extra,  bevelled  boards,  and 
panelled  sides, 15.00 


Also  Just  Published. 

Hectares  on  tire  OElriirentes  af  Cljristtanitji. 

SERIES  OF  LECTURES  ON  THE  EVIDENCES  OF 
CHRISTIANITY. 

Delivered  in  the  City  of  Philadelphia  by  Distinguished  Clergymen  of  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church. 


EDITED  BY  RT.  REV.  ALONZO  POTTER,  D.D., 

Bishop  of  the  Diocese  of  Pennsylvania. 

1 vol.  Royal  8vo. 


Date  Due 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


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